Still on the side of the Angels
by deducethatsherlock
Summary: It's high summer in England and the middle of what the English call the silly season, and there is not a whiff of crime around to occupy Sherlock Holmes. Not feeling quite himself and uneasy about the lack of mental exercise he is getting, a surprising opportunity comes his way but first he has to come to trust his new client, who has to use a unique way of getting his attention.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter One.**_

Sherlock Holmes regarded his reflection in the bathroom mirror forlornly.

The face that stared back was gaunt, hollow cheeks, sunken tired looking eyes, red rimmed, hugely dilated pupils edged by colourless irises.

He looked like a man who had spent a couple of days on a vodka bender.

Felt like it too, body fragile, legs shaky, head pounding, but he hadn't had anything stronger than tea or coffee for days.

He could understand it if he were working on a case, but there was precious sign of one of _those_ darkening his doorstep.

_Famine or feast. _

That was often how his line of work was.

Things had got a lot better since John Watson had started his infernal blog, amidst the dross, the mundane and the downright crazy time wasters, he had managed to sift out one or two interesting cases, and of course, LeStrade still called upon him now and again, but it seemed that the criminal fraternity were all out of town on their summer holidays and things had been quiet for several weeks now.

Sherlock normally could not stand inactivity. He much preferred to keep his brain active because when he was bored, he got manic and self destructive and literally anything could happen.

This period of inactivity, however, was different.

He hadn't been feeling himself for a while, hard though it was to have to admit to himself that he was a frail human being after all and that the receptacle for his massive intelligence was mere flesh and blood, prone to all humanity's weaknesses and failings.

Weak and endlessly weary, he had told himself that it was his body's way of rebelling after all the years of abuse he had put it through, not eating properly, often not eating at all when on a case because digestion took up too much energy, wasting away only to over indulge when a case was over and he was in celebratory mood.

Nicotine withdrawal was a bitch, but he was doing well and he no longer thought about smoking every second of the day, and his other 'distractions' no longer interested him. He much preferred the clarity of thinking he had these days, knew he no longer needed that kind of 'enhancement'.

When his lack of general well being and a nagging headache had continued beyond a couple of weeks, he had put it down to a virus, his immune system again weakened by his haphazard lifestyle.

Basically he had dismissed it from his mind, ignoring it, unable to actually put his finger on anything specific, and loathed to invest any time in speculating, relying on the occasional dose of painkillers to do for the headache, which he was convinced was caused by having to deal with the mind numbing pap and boring minutiae of day to day trivia, focusing instead on his experiments at Barts and the specimens he currently had in the fridge, writing monographs and fending off Mrs Hudson's attempts to mother and smother him, because she too had noticed that he was 'looking a bit seedy, dear, under the weather' and 'needed looking after'.

She fussed and blustered, ignoring his protestations, insisted on cooking ample meals for him, even though she continued to protest that she was not his housekeeper, and out of politeness he would eat a mouthful or two, smile benignly, showing his gratitude, despite his lack of appetite, because he had no desire to insult her or hurt her feelings, and when she was satisfied and returned to her own domain downstairs, he would empty the rest of the contents of the plate into the kitchen bin and discreetly get rid of the evidence.

He had tried taking John's advice, to get plenty of sleep, drink plenty of water and take more exercise, eat proper meals at regular times, not just microwave dinners or beans on toast, or perish the thought, Pot Noodles, and try to stay calm and relaxed, but alas, after a couple of weeks, his healthy lifestyle regime had gone by the wayside, mainly because he was not hungry and sleep often eluded him even when he was bone weary and could not think straight, his head feeling like it would explode, his thoughts a jumble, crowding in, reason clouded by pain.

Grudgingly, Sherlock had had to admit that things were not getting any better.

Now there was this.

Blinking rapidly several times to clear his vision, the sudden blurriness a new development, in the mirrior, he watched a thin trickle of blood slide down his jaw line and out of the corner of his eye caught the tremor of the razor blade that he was still holding in his right hand.

Drat.

He hadn't cut himself shaving since he didn't know when, mainly because he did not often wet shave, preferring the speed of an electric shaver, but today he had decided to do so because he had neglected his ablutions for a few days and the itchy, scratchy stubble had begun to jar and irritate.

And there it was.

A great chunk missing from his chin.

He dropped the razor in to the sink, because suddenly it seemed too heavy for his hand and gently bowed his head as he realized that he was swaying slightly.

He held on to the sink for a few minutes, then reached out, running the tap he cupped his hands under the cascade and carefully splashed cold water over his face, then moved cautiously to the toilet commode and sat down, reaching for the toilet paper to blot his face and wad a scrap into a tight ball, applying it to the stinging spot on his jaw.

Time to admit, if only to himself, that there was definitely something amiss.

He had done a good job of hiding the situation from John Watson, so far, not wanting to worry his friend.

_What the eye can't see, the heart can't grieve over._

It was easier now that they no longer roomed together, but John was a doctor, and he was not blind, and Sherlock had begun to suspect that he had noticed one or two little lapses recently, even though he had not laboured the point with him.

There was the slightly drunken slur when he had been pontificating about the monogram he was writing, and the tremor in his hand, only slight, only now and again, but it was definitely affecting his ability to play the violin and making his usual appalling handwriting even worse, and now, apparently, his ability to shave the fuzz off his chin.

Sherlock had quickly been able to dismiss the other incidents as part of his nicotine withdrawal, and fortunately John had accepted what he had said on face value.

Then there was the unusual, inexplicable clumsiness, fumbling and almost dropping his phone on a couple of occasions when sending a text, and nearly dropping his laptop when he misjudged the distance to his desk.

Then there had been the slight stumble the other day when he had missed his footing on the stairs, and the trip as they had been leaving Scotland Yard, the ever graceful and sure footed Sherlock seeming to trip over his own feet and needing to reach out to a wall to steady himself.

That time the slightly startled Sherlock had dismissed it as low blood sugar and they had gone their separate ways with him promising to eat something decent when he got home.

And then he had blacked out.

He had been alone, in the Baker Street flat at the time, and had decided that John definitely did _not_ need to know about that.

_Least said, soonest mended._

However, although he had tried not to dwell on it, the incident had concerned Sherlock.

He wasn't the kind of man who fainted dead away for no reason.

And now there was this, further visible evidence of his apparently worsening infirmity right there on his noble chin.

Damn.

Sherlock did not need to have superior powers of deductive reasoning to know that he could no longer ignore the evidence of his own eyes, even if they were slightly blurred.

Procrastination is the thief of time, and he might already have wasted too much of that with his obstinacy and his refusal to acknowledge that he had a problem.

He did have a problem.

Ignoring it wasn't making it go away.

Slowly, Sherlock rose to his feet, returning to the sink. He reached into the soapy water and retrieved the razor, relieved to see that his fingers were now steady, curling strongly around the handle of the razor, replacing it on the shelf, then returned his hand in to the sink to pull out the plug, watching as the scummy water swirled around the plug hole and drained away, then slowly he raised his eyes and regarded his reflection in the mirror once more.

He barely recognized the tired, haggard man staring back at him.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh then drew in a deep, refreshing breath.

'Man up, Sherlock. Don't be a wimp,' he told himself in a gruff voice, steadying his shaking body against the sink, and in that instant he made a momentous decision.

He knew what he had to do now, and there was no more time to waste.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two.**_

Focused at last, Sherlock had pulled on his second best dressing gown and settling in his favourite chair had opened up his computer on his lap, loaded Google and started trawling through various websites.

However, after twenty minutes of labour, he let out a ragged breath and cast aside the computer in frustration and disgust.

He hadn't got very far. Indeed, far from allaying his fears, all he had succeeded in doing was putting the wind up himself.

Fortunately, he was not a man prone to hypochondria, and had enough wit left to realize that self diagnosis was a dangerous thing.

He was a consulting detective, not a doctor, and whilst he had a good knowledge of anatomy, biology and biochemistry, he was keenly aware that he had neither the knowledge nor the expertise required to sort through the plausible, or the frankly ludicrous.

There was also a fundamental flaw in his search parameters.

He had begun with a simple search, but when that had proved frustrating and fruitless, he had strung together various symptoms that in and of themselves might not even be linked, and as a result had been bombarded with links to various sites for everything under the sun, including ads for pain relief medication, Parkinson's Disease, MS, MND and Vertigo and he had soon come to the conclusion that he was on a wild goose chase, and that his labours on the laptop had just been further procrastination.

He still knew what he had to do.

The only difference from twenty minutes ago was that now he had no other options.

A quick glance at his watch told him that if he made a phone call now, there would be someone to answer. 9am on the dot. Business hours had begun.

He took his phone from his dressing gown pocket, put in the call and when it was done, he had to admit that he felt a modicum of relief.

He had accomplished something. Taken the first steps, approached the problem in a positive manner instead of acting like an ostrich with his head buried in the sand.

He retired to his bedroom and after removing his dressing gown and night attire, dressed, slowly and methodically, donning clean underwear, a snowy white shirt, left open at the throat, a dark, light weight summer suit, because London had been in the throes of a heat wave for the last two weeks and the thermometer had hit 30 degrees only the day before, and his usual highly polished shoes, fumbling with the laces with unusually un-co-ordinated fingers.

He then pulled a comb roughly through his unruly mop of hair and removed the offending wad of toilet paper from his chin, applying a smear of antiseptic cream to the spot and noting that the nick had indeed stopped oozing blood now.

After allowing himself time to down a mug of strong, tepid coffee with two heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar, he ignored his heavy coat and scarf, hanging beside the door, no need for either of those in the sweltering heat predicted by the woman on the television weather forecast, and made his way carefully down the stairs, only to come face to face with Mrs Hudson and her basket of cleaning materials.

"Going out, dear? Good. Some fresh air will soon put the roses back in those cheeks and I'll have time to give your place a good going over without tripping over your big feet!"

-0-

As Sherlock emerged from 221B, Baker Street was all hustle and bustle, and the various aromas from the cafe next door caused a wave of nausea to unexpectedly roll over him and he briefly rocked back on his heels until he managed to pull himself together.

He was relieved to find a black cab pulling up at the curb, practically at his feet, glad that he would not have to walk to the end of the street to hail one, as his legs still felt a little unsteady beneath him, until he realized that the passenger alighting from the back was Dr John Watson.

"Morning," Watson greeted him jovially, then ducked his head back inside the cab window to pay the driver, and ask him to wait, or at least Sherlock hoped that was what he was doing.

"Going somewhere?" Watson asked as Holmes moved up beside him and made to slip into the back of the cab.

'Obviously," Holmes muttered in a haughty tone, then, noticed the pained look on Watson's face.

Sherlock quickly realized that Watson thought that he was off to look into some case and was eager to get in on the action.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock," Watson sighed deeply in that world weary way of his. 'Do you want me to come with you?' The eagerness returned to his face and Holmes realized that his friend loved the thrill of the chase now almost as much as he himself did.

'No,' Holmes responded, a little too sharply as he ducked into the cab and settled back in the seat. He wished that he had his coat, so that he could pull up the collar and hide his chin, because Watson's keen eyes had honed in on the nick, as he had known that he would, and wished he could at least take back the tone in which he had just spoken to his friend.

'I think I can manage a dental appointment on my own,' he clarified quickly so that he would not have to see the hurt and the curiosity in John's eyes any longer.

'Oh ... Ok. Only I thought ..."

"Yes, I know what you thought.'

"Did you have an argument with your razor?" Watson arched an eyebrow, fighting to hold back a grin, because it was so unusual for Holmes not to be absolutely perfect and precise in everything he did.

This small imperfection made him more human somehow.

Holmes' only reply was a nasty glare.

'Are you going somewhere, Guv'na, only other people might want to use my cab," the cabbie grumbled sarcastically from the front seat, eyeing his passenger sternly through the rear view mirror. "Time's money, Guv, and my times precious, even if yours ain't.'

'Yes. Thank you,' Holmes snarled, leaning forward to whisper the address of his destination to the cabbie as Watson still held on to the open cab door, eternally grateful for the noise of traffic on the street so that Watson could not overhear.

"I see that you have started the meter so I'm already paying for your time," he concluded in a louder, snide voice, sitting back in the seat once more.

"I'll see you later then, shall I?" Watson asked hopefully.

"Undoubtedly," Holmes replied. "_I_ do still _live_ here," he added acidly, and then turned his head away, indicating that as far as he was concerned there was nothing more to say.

Feeling rather foolish, John Watson shut the cab door, stood back from the curb and watched the vehicle pull away into a stream of traffic moving down Baker Street, wondering what it was that could have put his friend Holmes in such a good mood this early on a Wednesday morning, then with a small shrug of his shoulders he walked to the front door, inserted his key and entered 221B Baker Street, shouting out a cheery greeting to Mrs Hudson as he began to climb the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three.**_

'Well, I won't tell you that it's probably nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes. I've known you and your family for a very long time, and I respect your intelligence far too much for that,' Sir Frederick Penrose Gill pushed back his plush black leather wing backed chair and rose from behind his desk, extending his right hand out across his desk towards Sherlock Holmes.

He was still an imposing man, despite his advancing years and much respected in his field.

He was a squat, rotund man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. His clothes were expensive and well cut, and the belly straining at his waistcoat buttons told of his pleasure at enjoying the rewards of his well deserved success.

The fact that he had been the Holmes family doctor since God was a lad had caused Sherlock a moment of pause, but when it came down to it, there was no-one else he trusted.

Penrose Gill would get the job done and not sugar coat the pill for him at the end of it, and he was one man that not even brother Mycroft could brow beat into spilling the beans.

'Thank you,' Holmes responded, rising slowly from his own seat to accept the brief handshake.

'I'll arrange those tests we spoke about," Penrose Gill assured.

Holmes resisted the urge to blurt out: 'I can hardly wait,' merely nodding curtly in reply.

'It shouldn't be more than a couple of days. Get them out of the way, and then we'll have a better idea of what we're up against.'

"Mmmm, know thy enemy.'

'Yes, yes, indeed,' Penrose Gill gave Holmes a weak smile. 'And of course, you can rest assured that you can rely on our complete discretion. Everything that goes on between us, here, and with my colleagues at the hospital, will remain completely confidential. After all, a man in your position, in the public eye ..."

'And a brother like Mycroft,' Holmes interjected with a nasty smile twisting his lips.

'Yes, indeed,' Penrose Gill fought to smother the tiniest smile, well aware of the strange long standing love/hate relationship between the Holmes brothers.

"I have every confidence in you, Sir Frederick, in every respect. That is why I came to you.'

Holmes moved wearily toward the consulting room door.

It was only a few feet, but it felt like he was traversing miles, lead legged, confidentiality and discretion the least of his worries at that precise moment as the tepid coffee he had drunk before leaving Baker Street fought to make a spectacular re-appearance.

The last thing Holmes wanted was to embarrass himself by vomiting all over the fine Axminster carpet in this high end Harley Street Consulting Room.

All he really wanted to do was get out of the stuffy room and get some fresh air.

Penrose Gill must have become aware of his discomfort and came up beside him to offer him a supporting arm, much to Holmes embarrassment, and the withering look he aimed at the older man halted the physician in mid stride.

He didn't need or want this old man's sympathy.

All he wanted was to find a bathroom, evacuate his turbulent stomach in private and then go home to Baker Street.

"Try not to worry, old man. It never accomplishes anything," Penrose Gill spoke softly. 'Easier said than done, I know, but nevertheless, a man's state of mind can have a bearing on his physical health too, you know. The power of positive thinking. You'd know a thing or two about that, I dare say."

'I'll try,' Holmes managed through clenched teeth.

"Then I'll bid you good morning. Oh, and by the way, you'll find the gentleman's facility down the hallway to your right."

Sherlock did not hang around to thank the man, bolting out of the consulting room and staggering down the hallway to the gentleman's lavatory, barely making it in time.

When it was over and his stomach was empty, his mouth rank with the bitter taste of stomach acid and coffee, his body feeling rung out, Holmes leaned against the wash basin, splashed cold water on his pale face and stared forlornly at his reflection in the mirror.

Penrose Gill had certainly been thorough with him, practically throwing him around with his wretched tests, making him touch his toes, bending and twisting, rolling around on the bed like some mad contortionist, all very necessary the old man had assured, making unfortunate mumbling noises as he scribbled illegible notes on a pad, and at the end of it, with Holmes feeling like he had been through the spin cycle of the washing machine, all Penrose Gill could say was that he could pretty much rule out Vertigo!

Not a fear of heights, Holmes knew, because he had seen it on one of his web searches earlier and had followed the links to various pages that explained that the condition sometimes had something to do with the mechanisms in the inner ear, and he had dismissed it almost immediately.

He was just about composed enough to make his way out of the bathroom when the door swung inward and Sir Frederick Penrose Gill popped his head around the open door.

'Oh good, you're still here. They can see you at 12.30pm today, if that is convenient. Shall I tell them you will be there?'

Holmes nodded his assent.

'If the nausea persists, I can prescribe something to help," Penrose Gill offered as something of an afterthought.

'That won't be necessary, thank you,' Holmes waved dismissively. 'Something I ate,' he added for good measure, not caring if the medical man believed him or not, whilst his mind tried to get to grips with just how quickly the old man had managed to make the arrangements, and just what that might mean to how serious this thing might actually turn out to be.

His knees suddenly felt weak all over again as his heart beat just a little too quickly in his chest.

Then a cynical little voice reminded Holmes that it probably had more to do with his ability to settle the bill expediently, and not to be so ridiculous.

"Nice cup of tea will soon have you back on form.'

_How typically British,_ Holmes thought sarcastically, trying to pull himself together. The eternal cure all, a nice cup of tea!

_Earl Grey or Darjeeling?_

_Tetley or Typhoo?_

'Right then, I'll let them know you'll be there," Penrose Gill reverted to his best businesslike bedside manner and gave Holmes the details of where to go and whom to ask for when he got there.

"Witty is a good man, brilliant actually. You're in good hands with him, and naturally I will be in touch when I have the test results,' he concluded.

'Thank you, Sir Frederick. I really am most appreciative.'

'Chin up, old man,' Penrose Gill's expression softened slightly, but only for a moment, and then he was gone, leaving Sherlock Holmes feeling like he had just been hit by a double decker London bus.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter Four.**_

John Watson used his thumbs to type another text message to Sherlock Holmes into his mobile phone and then pressed send, as he listened as Mrs Hudson chirruped, merrily away to herself in the kitchen.

She was storing the freshly purchased groceries she had decided Holmes desperately needed, when she could not clean Holmes' rooms to her satisfaction, because Watson had turned up and was cluttering up the place.

While she had been out and he had the peace and quiet of the place all to himself, Watson had updated his blog, then trawled the morning newspapers to see if there was even a hint of something sinister going on out there on the streets that might whet Holmes' appetite.

Nothing.

Not so much as a sniff of anything even vaguely intriguing.

Summer time in London.

Anyone with any sense and the ability to do so, had decamped to the South coast, including it seemed, every criminal in London.

He did not have to wait long for a response from his former flatmate.

Their text conversation this morning had been succinct and to the point thus far.

'_How was it? JW.'_

'_What? SH.'_

'_Dentist. JW.'_

'_Fine. SH.'_

'_Will you be home for lunch? Mrs Hudson offered to cook. JW.'_ Had been his latest missive and Holmes was taking his time in replying.

'There, that's better,' Mrs Hudson came to stand in the kitchen doorway, her tasks completed. 'Honestly, I think Sherlock must have been living on coffee and fresh air," she sighed deeply. 'No wonder he looks like skin and bone. I swear a good gust of wind would knock him over. Anything, dear?'

'Not yet, Mrs H.'

'Well I need to know. I want to get cracking on the potatoes, dear.'

Watson frowned as he glanced at his wristwatch. It was only just noon now. What was the rush? She usually didn't get lunch ready and on the table until at least 1.30pm.

'You could always cook it and leave it for him to heat up in the microwave later, I suppose,' Watson suggested helpfully.

'No dear, I don't think so. I did that with a nice steak and kidney pie last week and it was still sitting there on the ruddy turntable all congealed and going mouldy three days later. I'm not cooking stuff to get wasted, and besides, I need to see him actually put it in his mouth, chew and swallow!'

There was suddenly an odd crack to the woman's voice, and it struck a nerve in Watson.

This was not just Mrs Hudson in her mother hen mode.

She was really worried about Holmes.

Watson began to worry at his bottom lip with his teeth.

It was true that he hadn't been paying as much attention as he used to when he lived here, but now that he thought about it, there was definitely something going on with Holmes, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Holmes did appear to have lost weight, and he wasn't exactly fat by any standard, and his eating habits had always been a bit hit and miss, since Watson had known him. He ate to live, not lived to eat, he had once told Watson, and eating was superfluous when he was working on a case, taking up too much time and energy.

No, it was more than just the not eating, Watson decided.

Was Sherlock trying to hide from him the fact that he was back on the fags, or worse, something stronger?

It was hard to say.

Watson wasn't here twenty four hours a day any longer, and he only saw what Holmes wanted him to see.

And he was a sly beggar when he put his mind to it.

Holmes had been furtive and secretive, more so than usual, his scathing looks warning against delving too deeply, and Watson had just assumed that it was his way of dealing with the boredom of mental inactivity.

At least he hadn't resorted to shooting holes in Mrs Hudson's walls.

Watson's phone chirped a text alert and he returned his attention to the message.

It was Holmes.

'_What's on the menu? SH.'_

'_Bangers and mash, JW.'_ Watson typed, pressed send and waited for Holmes' reply, which came back more quickly this time.

'_Makes a change from beans on toast. Regret will have to decline, SH.'_

'_Where are you? JW.'_

'_Tied up, SH.'_

'_Not literally, I hope, JW.'_ Watson quipped back, although with Holmes you could never really be sure.

'_Busy, SH.'_ Holmes replied swiftly, and Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

Only Holmes could make a text message sound like an admonishment.

'_Have to turn phone off for a while. Will text later, SH.'_

"Forget Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, he won't be back for lunch. I think he must have got a better offer," Watson called out, and then bit his lip, realizing that that probably sounded very ungrateful.

"Why am I not surprised?" Mrs Hudson sighed heavily as she reappeared in the kitchen doorway, throwing him a pained look.

"I didn't mean ..."

'It's all right, dear. I know what you meant," she regarded him with sad eyes.'That boy, honestly, sometimes I think he'll be the death of me. I worry more about him than I do my own flesh and blood, for crying out loud, and what thanks do I get? He shouts at me, shoots holes in my walls, throws things around in temper and makes an awful mess, wakes me up crashing about in the middle of the night, falling down drunk and knocking things over. Honestly, I don't need all this nonsense at my age, and with my hip. Sometimes I think I'm going to have to strangle the little bugger so I can get a minutes peace of mind!'

With that she shuffled off back into the kitchen, leaving Watson frowning.

_Sherlock, falling down drunk in the middle of the night?_

That simply did not compute.

Sherlock liked a little whisky now and again, the odd glass of wine, but in all the time he had known him, Watson had never actually seen his friend even the slightest bit tipsy, much less falling down drunk. Alcohol was not his poison of choice. It dulled his senses, and destroyed vital brain cells, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted.

But, Sherlock was not working on a case at the moment.

Who knew what he did when the demons crept in from the shadows in the middle of the night and he was all alone?

Watson suddenly wondered if he had missed something.

He recalled the day Holmes had stumbled outside Scotland Yard, blaming low blood sugar. Was it possible that Sherlock had developed diabetes, and he had missed the obvious signs, the lack of energy, sudden weight loss, perhaps a raging thirst that drove him to drinking alcohol late into the night?

John scratched absently at his chin, deep in thought, trying to recall other instances when Holmes had either looked off colour, or acted strangely, but again, he could think of nothing that stuck out as particularly odd.

Watson realized that he was going to have to raise his game, and keep a closer eye on his friend, surreptitiously, of course, because if Holmes thought Watson was being overly concerned, he would clam up and become even more determined to conceal the truth from him.

What Sherlock really needed was a case. Something juicy to sink his mental teeth into, but alas, there didn't seem to be much chance of that in the offing at the moment.

All right, another kind of distraction then.

_But what?_

Watson mulled it over in his head, but still had no firm answers, when the aromas of grilled sausages and onion gravy wafted in from the kitchen, and Mrs Hudson called him to the table.

Despite her grumbling, she had plated up an extra meal for Sherlock, a hand written note propped up against the plastic wrapped plate on the kitchen counter, instructing Holmes on what power setting to use on the microwave and how long it needed to heat.

"Think even he can manage that without burning the house down," she had waved at the meal and the note, and then had turned her attention to washing up the pots and pans she had used to prepare the meal.

"You not having anything, Mrs H?" Watson asked, carrying his plate to the table in the living room, then feeling somewhat guilty as he tucked into the sausages and creamy mashed potatoes.

"Suddenly lost my appetite, dear. Worrying over my wretched tenant," she sniffed and loudly placed a saucepan on the drainer. "Just means there's more for you and Sherlock. I'll get something later," she assured.

Watson smiled.

Sherlock was a lucky man.

There were people who cared a great deal about him, even if he didn't invite or welcome their concerns.

Like it or not, Holmes had more friends than he thought.

In his absence, Watson knew that Mrs Hudson would keep an eagle eye on Sherlock, and if she felt even the slightest bit uneasy about the way he looked, or the way he was acting, she would not keep her concerns to herself.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

Sherlock Holmes did not return to 221B Baker Street before John Watson had to leave to meet up with his lovely wife that Wednesday evening, nor did John see him the following day, or even the day after that, and by the time he was ready to leave that Friday evening, if he hadn't know better and had been a much more cynical man, he might have drawn the conclusion that Holmes was deliberately avoiding him.

Mrs Hudson had assured him that Holmes had indeed been home, that she had heard him shuffling around, scratching a wretched tune out on that violin of his and muttering darkly in the wee small hours of the morning, but she had not seen him either.

He had risen early and left before she had got up to make her first cup of tea, which was almost unheard of, and had not returned until she had retired for the night.

She also confided that the meal that she had prepared on Wednesday was gone the following day, the plate washed and left to drain along with a knife and fork and his morning coffee mug, but she could not be sure that he had actually consumed the food.

If Holmes had fed it to the bin, he had made sure to remove the evidence before she had had a chance to check.

The two men had kept in touch by text, and Watson had come to the conclusion that Holmes was desperately trying to keep himself busy, to avoid feeling hemmed in at the flat in the sweltering heat.

John had reluctantly accepted that at least Sherlock was trying to do something positive to deal with the lull in criminal activity in the capitol and took some small comfort from the fact that he had undoubtedly decided not to inflict his volatile mood on Mrs Hudson, or the fixtures and fittings in the flat.

The unusually hot weather had continued over the weekend, and on Saturday morning Mary had suggested that they too take a trip to the seaside, and whilst Watson had never been a bucket and spade, sunbathing type of day tripper, he had not been able to refuse his lovely new wife, with her sweet, enticing smile and seductive wink, and so they had taken the train down to Brighton and found a nice B&B near the sea front and had stayed until late Sunday afternoon.

It had been a very pleasant and romantic couple of days, and there was a smug smile on Watson's lips, and a new spring to his steps as he stepped out of a cab outside 221B Baker Street and practically ran up the stairs to Holmes' flat that Monday morning.

He found the man himself sitting at the dining table, face obscured by that morning's edition of the Daily Telegraph, a plate with a half gnawed piece of toast before him and a teacup sitting lopsidedly on a saucer beside it.

'Hello, stranger,' Watson pulled out the chair beside his friend as Mrs Hudson emerged from the kitchen with a fresh cup of tea. Her expression was one of utter bliss and she gave him a big thumbs' up as she put the cup down in front of him, her face wreathed in smiles as she then used the same thumb to indicate towards Holmes.

'Your timing is impeccable, John,' Holmes spoke at last, closing the newspaper and after folding it neatly, set it down on the table between them.

The headline, Watson noted was about some new financial crisis in the City, and he vaguely recalled hearing something about it on the BBC News Channel while he had been getting dressed that morning.

More gloom and down in the world of high finance, to go along with fresh scandal in the NHS.

Watson flicked his gaze up from the newspaper headline just in time to see Holmes stuff the last corner of his slice of toast into his mouth, chewing it with satisfaction before reaching out for his tea.

Watson was surprised to see that Holmes looked good this morning.

For one thing, he didn't look quite so haggard. He was dressed in black trousers and a navy shirt, left open at the neck, and his unruly hair had been tamed somewhat by a comb.

He had more colour in his cheeks, and he looked well rested, those unusual blue grey eyes less red rimmed.

Indeed, as Holmes suddenly realized that he was being scrutinized, and turned those all seeing eyes on to his friend, Watson realized that there was a familiar twinkle there.

For his part, Holmes felt much better this morning.

He'd spent the weekend sleeping like a baby.

After an initial barrage of tests at the hospital, on Wednesday afternoon, ranging from the less invasive investigations, like blood pressure, pulse and temperature base line readings, measuring his height and weight, quizzing him about his diet and exercise regime, and his recent general health, then an eye test and hearing test, and tests designed to measure his hand eye co-ordination and spatial awareness, to having various bodily fluids extracted, he had returned on Friday afternoon for a full head CT scan and various X Rays before a further brief consultation with his new hospital consultant, Sir Roger Witty, FRCS, who had taken a more detailed medical history and conducted his own physical examination of his new patient.

Like Penrose Gill, the man had remained infuriatingly tight lipped, ignoring Holmes' invitation to put forward a diagnosis, uttering instead that he would rather wait for the test results and other meaningless reassurances and platitudes, at the end of which Holmes had been presented with a prescription for a mild sedative and a strong pain killer and orders to take both and rest as much as possible and to wait to hear from Sir Frederick Penrose Gill.

Normally he hated taking sleeping pills, they clouded his mental faculties and left him feeling hung over, so had initially ignored the order and had therefore suffered the consequences that Friday night.

However when excruciating pain and exhaustion had threatened to drive him completely out of his mind, he had finally acquiesced and had downed two pain killers and one sleeping tablet, as directed, and after sleeping for practically ten hours straight on Saturday night, he had woken on Sunday morning feeling surprisingly refreshed.

He had spent Sunday quietly, dozing on and off, listening to music, scrutinizing the newspapers for anything that might be of interest to him in a professional capacity and then had taken another dose of medications and retired early.

This morning he had woken feeling more like himself than he had in longer than he cared to recall, and to his surprise, he had found that he was actually hungry.

His body seemed prepared to carry out his brain's directives and he had showered, shaved and dressed without mishap.

It was a marked improvement over this time last week.

Mrs Hudson's full English had proved to be a miracle restorative, and the toast and marmalade he had finished off with had competed the meal to his satisfaction.

And miracle upon miracles, he didn't feel in the least bit nauseous.

However, the main reason for the positive direction of his mood this morning was that there was a possibility that he had a new case in the pipeline.

'You've got a new client,' Watson stated confidently.

He knew the look on Holmes face well.

The game was afoot, and like a bloodhound, Sherlock was straining at the leash, eagerly anticipating getting the scent.

"Perhaps."

Holmes reached into the pocket of his trousers, extracting his phone; he opened up the text received menu and handed the phone over to Watson. There was a text already loaded, the message already open on the screen.

John glanced at it quickly, then looked up at Holmes and frowned.

However, he knew better than to ask.

Watson returned his attention to the text; sure that Sherlock was just waiting to pounce, asking him to tell him what he made of it.

But what exactly could he make of it?

Ok, the sender was Inspector Greg LeStrade, and Watson made a quick mental note that it had been sent at 4.44pm last Friday evening.

The text message in its self was unusual, because LeStrade usually telephoned Holmes when he needed his help on a case.

However, the most unusual thing about the text was the animated emoticon rolling around laughing its head off in the main body of text.

_ROTFLMAO. _

That and nothing else.

_Rolling on the floor laughing my arse off!_

A joke then?

So why was Sherlock sitting there barely able to keep his body still in anticipation. The man was practically vibrating.

John Watson mentally shrugged his shoulders.

Who was he to burst Holmes' bubble? Let him have his fun.

Sherlock was looking better, and as far as Watson was concerned that was a major plus, because it was only as he looked at him properly now that he realized just how seedy Sherlock had been looking of late.

He was snapping at the bit, on the scent of a possible case and as usual, John was completely in the dark.

Welcome back to the Twilight Zone, he thought, and then had to fight to suppress a smile.

It was good to have things back to normal.

No doubt both he and Sherlock would find out soon enough what was going on.

All they had to do was wait.

Unless of course, there was more that Sherlock was not telling him.

'Is that it?' Watson handed back the mobile phone and watched Holmes close the text menu before returning it to his trouser pocket. 'Scotland Yard having a bit of a lull too?' he quipped.

'It's August in London, John, no worthy criminal in his right mind would plot some nasty scheme at this time of the year. Not enough going on to hide his tracks and our friends at the Yard have more time on their hands to snoop around.'

"So they've all buggered off to the seaside or to shoot grouse in Scotland, or something, and Lestrade thought he'd fill in the last few minutes of his day by pulling your leg.'

'He suspected that I too was at a loose end, and probably climbing the walls with boredom. He followed up that little laugh riot with this,' Holmes reached out for his computer. His email account was loaded and there was a message already open on the screen.

'Violets are blue, roses are red, I've got a kook who says someone is dead,' Watson read the first line, a smile curling at the edges of his lips.

_Byron it wasn't!_

So it _was_ a joke.

But if that was the case, why wasn't Sherlock going off on one?

Any other time he'd be wanting to go over there and pull someone's head off at the very least. Instead, he was sitting there quite placid, for him.

Why was he acting like something big was about to fall in his lap?

Watson read on.

'No bodies, no suspect, but apparently someone's been on a killing spree and it seems to have slipped our attention. Thought this would be right up your street, so sending someone round to see you, Monday at 10am. Miss Cassia Ingram. She's been driving everyone mad, from the lowliest desk sergeant to the damn Chief Constable, and when she got passed on to me, I couldn't resist telling her that you were the perfect man for her, and that if there turned out to be something in it, you would be the one to find out, and then I _might_ be persuaded to investigate. Have fun. GL. P.S. you two deserve each other.'

'So who is Cassia Ingram then?' Watson raised his eyes to regard Holmes, still surprised by just how laid back he seemed to be.

'No idea,' Sherlock smiled benignly.

'You checked her out of course?'

'Of course.'

'And?'

'Off the radar. Apart from the usual information, date of birth, that kind of thing, absolutely nothing of note, except that she is the God daughter of Sir Walter Bootle.' Watson frowned, the name unfamiliar. 'Merchant banker, died in 2007, of natural causes. His son tried to kick up a stink at the time, inferring murder, but there was nothing in it.'

'Perhaps there was. Perhaps Miss Ingram also believes he was murdered, knows who might have done the deed, and thinks that this person is still in the business,' Watson surmised, passing the laptop back to Sherlock.

"So why wait six years?"

"Hmmm, that's a fair point."

Watson took a sip of his tea, scratched his left ear absently, and then suddenly, a look of utter surprise and glee transformed his features.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, you know what this is! LeStrade is sending you your own little Miss Marple!'

'Hardly. I don't think this Miss Ingram is quite in her dotage just yet, Watson, she's only thirty five."

'Oh. So?"

"No-one there is taking her seriously, after all, it is the silly season, and they obviously think that she is some kind of crank, Le Strade says as much in his email, and of course, there is an element of LeStrade finding it amusing to yank my chain, palming her off on to me, then sitting back to watch me perhaps make a fool of myself chasing wild geese. His way of bringing me down a peg or two after one too many successes of late that have made him and the Force look incompetent.'

"Conveniently forgetting all the cases you don't take credit for."

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"And you're just going to go along with that?"

"Why not?" Sherlock shrugged philosophically, eyeing his now empty tea cup. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed and the elderly landlady appeared in the kitchen doorway as if by magic. "Ah! There you are. More tea, Mrs Hudson," he demanded.

"And I suppose you want fanning with a wet kipper while I'm at it," Mrs Hudson grumbled darkly, but then turned to move back into the kitchen to fulfil his request, and as he watched her, Watson could tell from the slight jiggling of her shoulders that she was only laughing softly to herself.

Sherlock Holmes was back to his usual self and all was once again right in Mrs Hudson's world.

She returned quickly with the teapot and silently poured out a fresh cup for Holmes, before pouring out another cup for Watson.

"Can I get you something to eat, John?"

"No thanks, Mrs H. I had something at home," Watson smiled warmly at her, acknowledging silently her apparent happiness and relief at Sherlock's improved appearance and demeanour, before returning his attention to Holmes. "You think there's something in it?"

"I don't know ..."

"Oh go on, you can manage a slice of toast, I don't doubt."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson," Holmes tone was now one of impatience as the elderly landlady remained hovering between himself and Watson. "You might consider making a fresh pot. I'm expecting a visitor in a short while."

"I'm you're landlady dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs Hudson reminded, but there was a bright twinkle in her eyes, as she whisked the empty plate away from Sherlock's place setting.

"As I was saying," Sherlock glared at Mrs Hudson, hoping that she would take the hint and return to the kitchen.

She had an unfortunate habit of eavesdropping and then thinking she had the right to add her own opinion on any subject they were talking about. Either that or she went off on some dotty old lady tangent that was way out of left field.

He loved her dearly, well, as well as he was capable of loving anyone, but sometimes she droned on so, complete drivel most of the time, and it quickly got on his nerves.

"Don't mind me, I'm sure," Mrs Hudson returned the sour look, her tone hurt. "After all, I only live here! If you keep that up, young man, I'll put the bloody rent up."

She lifted her chin and pinned Holmes with a piercing look, then taking the hint she moved away, carrying the tea pot back to the kitchen.

Soon they heard the clank of the tap and water running as she filled the kettle, ready to boil and brew a fresh pot of tea.

"As I was saying," Holmes continued with a deep, exasperated sigh. "I don't know yet. I haven't met Miss Ingram."

"And you don't smell a rat here, Sherlock? I mean, the email sets the tone. It has to be a joke. LeStrade's way of getting a rise out of you."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. There may or may not be something in it. She's been knocked back at every turn, yet she persists, keeps aiming higher up the food chain hoping to hook some bigger fish. I like that kind of determination."

"Obstinacy."

Watson was beginning to see now why LeStrade had not been able to resist adding the last bit to his text.

_You two deserve each other._

Holmes could be one stubborn son of a gun when he knew he was right, although he didn't often recognize, or admire the trait in others.

"Perhaps. She may indeed turn out to be a crank. Some poor creature, obsessed, deranged, deluded, mentally ill, and if that turns out to be the case, I'll simply ply her with tea, pat her hand and then send her on her way in no doubt that I do not waste my time on such things."

Watson paused in the process of raising his tea cup to his lips and winced.

He could well imagine the sort of things Holmes might come out with, none of them complementary.

"Why bother seeing her at all? You could tell her you're busy on some other case and send her away without even asking any details. It would be kinder, I mean, if it turns out that she is mentally ill." Watson grew cautious now.

"LeStrade obviously thinks it's all a big joke, on you, but if she is mentally ill Sherlock, it would be cruel to see her and give her even the slightest hope that you might be able to help her, and when you don't, she could go straight to the papers and make a big noise about how you lead her down the garden path. You don't need that. You're just getting your reputation back to something like respectable, after all. Why buy into something that could blow up in your face?"

"You want the truth, John?"

"Go for it."

"Frankly, I have nothing better to do."

"You're bored."

"Out of my vastly superior mind. I'd even consider looking into the existence of the Loch Ness monster right now, if it meant my brain was no longer consuming it's self on trivia, pap and dross. If I don't do some serious thinking shortly I may just end up in a permanent vegetative state!"

"And it beats shooting at the walls."

"Yes, that too. It's getting pretty old, both with Mrs Hudson and the neighbours, not to mention the dreadful draft."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed, lifting his refreshed tea cup to his lips, taking a sip and giving Watson something of a reproachful look.

His friend had a unique way of expressing himself, but Holmes did not always approve of his colourful use of expletives.

Undoubtedly the consequence of army life, a mostly male dominated enviromment.

"I need to do something, even if it is chasing wild geese up blind alleys."

He took another sip of his tea.

"Besides, I've been there too, John," he added, replacing his cup back in the saucer.

Watson frowned.

"Think, John. Think. How many times have I banged my head against a brick wall, trying to get the police to listen to me, to believe that I was on to something, that I wasn't some freak or a fruit loop wasting their time?"

"If you put it like that," Watson conceded softly.

"How many times did they ignore me, and more people died? Just because a person is paranoid, it doesn't necessarily follow that they are not really being followed. We do all still have something called instinct, John, although most people don't use it much these days."

"So?"

"So I'll hear her out. That's all. Perhaps she's crazy, perhaps she's as sane as you or I and something has just given her the jitters. I'll take the chance either way, because if I ignore her, and it turns out there is something to it, what do you think that would do to my state of mind, much less my reputation? I won't be a hypocrite, John. I won't be like the police, and hopefully at the end of it, I won't be a laughing stock either." Holmes explained matter of factly.

"I'll make you a deal, John. If she makes me yawn inside thirty seconds, you have my permission to toss her out of here, with the name of a good psychiatrist!"

"Deal."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six.**_

Miss Cassia Ingram did not _look_ like a nutcase, John Watson was relieved to find, regarding her from his perch on the other side of the room, note pad and pen poised, ready to begin taking notes.

She looked like a perfectly normal, respectable young woman.

However, Watson well knew that appearances could be deceptive.

Take Sherlock for instance

He looked like a perfectly nice, respectable young man, butter wouldn't melt. Polite, good manners, well educated, charming, none aggressive, indeed, you'd think he couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag.

And then he opened his mouth, waved a gun around or launched a punch.

As far as speaking his mind, Holmes had absolutely no inhibitions.

It was both shocking and shaming, but he was who he was and when in full flow, it was best to just let him get it off his chest.

Miss Ingram was a perfectly ordinary looking young woman. Plain, but by no means ugly, plump, but certainly not over weight to a degree that it might affect her health, indeed, from the way her clothes fell, he suspected that she had lost some weight recently.

Her complexion was fair, very pale, typically British, in other words, milk bottle white, despite the recent heat wave, so, she did not have a propensity for sun bathing.

Her hands were slender, fingers ringless, her wrists delicate.

Her hair, a mousy shade of brown had artificial blonde highlights artfully streaked through them and was pulled back in a rather uncomplimentary and somewhat untidy pony tail, and her eyes were a rather unique shade of moss green, the dark, lush kind you found on trees deep in the woods, and he could just make out that the dilated pupils had tiny flecks of gold sprinkled around them.

She sat demurely in the chair opposite Holmes. Silent. Her body language giving nothing away that Watson could pick up on, but he suspected that Holmes had deduced more in the first ten seconds after her appearance at the door, than he ever would after knowing her for a week.

As soon as Miss Ingram had entered the flat, Holmes had gone straight into deductive mode, scrutinizing the young woman silently, and Watson had decided to follow suit, mostly because he knew that Sherlock was keen that he try to be more observant and try to use his methods of deduction, and that his friend would quiz him later, wanting to know what he had made of their visitor.

Superior, condescending git, he just liked to show off.

However, so far, Holmes appeared to be on his best behaviour.

Still, it was difficult to insult, or put his foot in it, when he hadn't actually opened his mouth.

Indeed, no-one had spoken yet.

Apparently, no-one had seen the need for introductions.

Sherlock and Miss Ingram seemed to be communing silently, and all Watson could do was sit and watch.

Never the best host, Holmes had not greeted his guest verbally and had thrown Watson a scathing look, indicating that he should keep his mouth shut too when he had attempted to greet the young woman with a handshake, and he had simply waved the woman toward the chair opposite him.

Surprisingly, Miss Ingram had not introduced herself either, she had merely followed the waved instruction and taken the seat offered demurely, placing her folded hands in her lap, and fixed her unusual eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

After a few seconds of watching the pair, a shudder had suddenly run down Watson's spine.

He knew what Holmes was doing, but was it possible that Miss Ingram was doing the same to Holmes?

Was she reading him too, trying to deduce what kind of man he was?

_Interesting._

Watson had decided to do Sherlock's bidding and remain silent, curious to see who would feel compelled to break the silence first.

At least Sherlock had stopped twitching.

However, Watson wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

Holmes, like a snake, could be far more dangerous when he was silent and contemplative.

Yet, there he sat, silent save for the sound of his breathing, he habitually breathed through his mouth, slow and steady, his fingers steepled against his chin, inscrutable eyes fixed on Cassia Ingram.

This little show of restraint was very unusual.

Holmes was such a power house of nervous energy he simply could not control himself, often leaping out of his chair to pace up and down, waving his arms around, and pontificating.

This was a side to Holmes that Watson rarely saw.

_What was the little sod up to this time?_

_Wait for it... _

_Wait for it..._

_It couldn't last, could it?_

If it did, if this was some childish battle of wills, this could turn out to be a very long and unproductive day.

Watson's money, were he a betting man, would be on Miss Ingram.

Sherlock Holmes was too fond of the sound of his own voice and showing off how clever he was for him to hold out too much longer.

Maybe, Watson pondered, he had better say something to break the silence, get the ball rolling? Perhaps that was what Holmes was waiting for, but he hadn't given him any indication that he wanted him to begin the questioning.

Watson decided to return his attention to Cassia Ingram, and now that he looked at her again, he saw something different.

If he had thought that Holmes had been looking a bit under the weather lately, Cassia Ingram could top that.

She sat quietly, all outward appearances calm, demure, self assured, yet, his medically trained eye could see the weariness and dejection in the set of her shoulders, tired, red rimmed, defeated looking over bright eyes, flat, unemotional demeanour and chewed fingernails, one on each hand, the index finger to be precise, and that implied nervousness and anxiety.

She did not appear at all curious about her surroundings, indeed, had not made any attempt to look around the flat, but had fixed her eyes on Holmes and only Holmes.

Perhaps that was the only way she could focus and concentrate?

She looked tired and deflated, although she was trying hard to conceal it, and if John had to make a diagnosis, he would say that something had definitely disrupted her sleep last night, perhaps for more than one night, he mused, deciding that something that had definitely made her very uneasy.

In his chair, Sherlock continued his silent contemplation, reviewing what he had deduced so far about their visitor.

Quiet.

Not feeling the need to fill the silence with superfluous nonsense, which was unusual in the female of the species.

Holmes liked that.

She appeared self assured and quietly confident, and quite comfortable with her present situation, a little uneasy, he suspected, for her breathing was slightly irregular and she was trembling, ever so slightly, and not, he deduced because she was here to visit him.

Whilst trying to give that impression, she was far from relaxed, but again, he suspected that that was more to do with the reason why she was here, not because she was in any way daunted or over awed by him.

He could also deduce from her demeanour that whilst she had kept the appointment, she did not expect a successful outcome from her meeting with him.

She had already prepared herself for a rebuttal.

After the receptions she had received elsewhere, however, it seemed logical that she would assume that he too would kick her out with a flea in her ear.

Yet, here she was.

_Good girl, Miss Ingram._

Tenacity, in the face of rejection.

Holmes liked that attitude too.

She was made of strong stuff.

Obviously her need of his help weighed more heavily upon her than her fear of ridicule.

He admired that.

_Make your point, no matter how foolish other people might think you look._

_Well, he knew all about that, too, didn't he?_

He also admired her patience.

So, what else had he deduced so far?

Her clothes were simple, plain, neither old nor new, cheap nor expensive.

She had donned a pair of light weight summer slacks in a becoming shade of cream and a simple, plain white short sleeved T-Shirt, suitable for the weather, yet respectable enough for a business appointment.

Her feet were bare, ensconced in flat, plain strappy white sandals, just a little dusty, which indicated that she had walked a short distance to get here, and the absence of a handbag or purse endorsed that fact.

She hadn't come by taxi or the tube, unless she had an Oyster card in her trouser pocket, so therefore she had either been given a lift and someone was waiting for her to conclude her business and return her home, or, she was staying somewhere close and had decided to walk to the appointment, probably to help her focus her thoughts and plan what she was going to say to him.

Her mousy, highlighted, medium length hair was scraped back into a rather untidy pony tail. She had done it in a hurry, or uncaringly, for she had missed a few fine wisps around her ears and in the nape of her neck, not disturbed by the wind, for there was not a breath of air outside this morning, and she wore no jewellery, save for a cheap watch with a thin black leather strap, and not a scrap of make-up.

She was trying to show the world that she was a simple soul with simple needs, and that what you saw was what you got, nothing more complicated than that.

That she had no need to hide behind a facade.

Yet, he had the strong impression that she was indeed trying to hide something.

Further scrutiny told Holmes that something had obviously disturbed her sleep, recently, but, then again, he knew all about that too.

However, in her case, it was probably the stifling heat and humidity.

No-one was sleeping well in this heatwave.

_No, wait, it was a little more than that._

Something had spooked her.

Badly.

Her finger nails were bitten to the quick, but only the index finger on both hands, and she hadn't stopped at the nails, fresh patches of raw, sore skin were evident around the nails where she had bitten away the skin.

She hadn't taken the usual care with her dress and appearance this morning, obviously distracted and in a hurry to get this meeting over and done with, uncaring about whatever first impression he might have of her.

As to the kind of woman she was, he was struggling.

Holmes couldn't see anything to indicate her profession or anything about her personal life.

She was something of a blank page to him, and he found that discomforting.

He suspected that it was a deliberate move on her part.

That wasn't what she was trying to hide, but at the same time, she wasn't giving anything away either.

The only other time he had been in such a position had been his first meeting with '_the_ woman', and she had been completely naked save for her shoes and a diamond ring, at the time.

Hard to deduce much of anything, except that she was female, delighted at trying to embarrass him and Watson, shameless and completely comfortable with nudity and her own body.

So, Miss Cassia Ingram was something of a quandary.

_Why was she here?_

Finally, Holmes let out a deep breath, crossed one knee over the other and lightly tapping his lips with his fingers regarded Miss Ingram with a strangely benign and sympathetic expression on his face.

Watson was startled.

Holmes appeared to be going out of his way to make Miss Ingram more comfortable and at ease, inviting her to trust him.

That was definitely out of character for Holmes.

He had never been concerned about treading lightly, 'catching more flies with honey than vinegar', and sparing a person's blushes, or their feelings. Normally he just waded right in.

Pompous, arrogant, upper class twit!

Yet, right now he seemed strangely patient and understanding.

"Articulate," Holmes finally invited.

"There has been a murder," Cassia Ingram spoke at last, her voice a low, throaty contralto.

Watson immediately surmised that the rough voice was a clear indication that she had been crying.

Well, that accounted for the reddened eyes and the somewhat flat mood, he noted.

"Just the one?" Holmes shot back, and Miss Ingram made a small, involuntary movement away from him.

_Oh no ... _

_Here we go. _

_You just can't stop yourself, can you Sherlock!_

Holmes could be such a child at times. Petulant, belligerent, so damn immature in his bid to always get the upper hand.

And yet, he was also brilliant, intuitive and quick witted.

_Bloody clever clogs!_

Volatile and unpredictable, downright stubborn and unothodox, he could be infuriating beyond belief, and Watson was suddenly getting the feeling that Miss Cassia Ingram was in for one hell of a show.

"Yes, well, there usually is. Murder is more common than most people think. It's a big world, and somewhere out there, someone is killing someone else. Patricide. Fratricide. Stranger killings. Serial killings. Parents killing their offspring, and children killing their maters and paters, or their siblings, husbands doing in their wives and vice cersa. Poisonings, shootings, stabbings, strangulations ..."

"Sherlock!" Watson hissed, noting Miss Ingram's rather startled expression and realizing that Holmes was building up to a full blown rant.

_Here we go ..._

"Assassinations, murder for hire fuelled by greed or jealousy or race or religious intolerance," Holmes continued, ignoring Watson's rebuke.

For her part, Cassia Ingram seemed to have pulled herself together, and was weathering the vocal storm stoically, maintaining her silent calm.

"Don't waste my time with generalities, Miss Ingram, give me the facts. Don't exaggerate, and don't be boring, please, just the facts,' Holmes concluded, easing himself back in to his seat, having made his point, a little breathless Watson could not help noticing.

Cassia Ingram remained silent, her green eyes still pinned on Holmes, but her expression had changed to one of disappointed resignation.

"Well? Murder you say. Pray tell, who is the victim? Facts Miss Ingram, I cannot help you if you do not give me facts."

"You now damn well, Mr Holmes, that if I had any solid facts, I wouldn't be here, I'd be at a police station making a statement," Cassia Ingram spoke softly once more, her voice low but a little stronger now. "I don't have a name for you."

"What do you have? Gender? Age?" Holmes spoke laconically now, and Watson could see that he was growing bored.

Any minute now he would be yawning, and that would be his cue to end the visit.

_So what happened to hearing her out?_

"A child," Cassia Ingram replied, a quiver in her voice and an involuntary swallow, the first sign or any real discomfort on her part.

"A child?" Holmes echoed, casting a quick glance toward Watson, seeking silent confirmation that nothing had been reported in any newspaper in the past couple of days.

Watson gently shook his head.

However, that in its self didn't mean much.

A child murder was hardly something that the great British press would miss. Something like that was guaranteed to cause a media feeding frenzy.

So perhaps the body had not yet been found.

"A girl. A little blonde haired, blue eyed angel."

There was a definite emotional crack in her voice now, and if Watson wasn't mistaken, there were tears welling in Miss Ingram's eyes.

"She looks to be about three, four, I'm not sure. I'm not very good with children's ages, not having any myself," she wrestled with her emotions and fished a shredded tissue out of her pocket to discreetly dab at the corners of her eyes.

_Oh God ... _

_There it was._

_The_ face.

Sherlock was doing that thing with his face again.

The look that said he knew exactly what was going on here, when Watson himself still didn't have a ruddy clue.

_Smartarse!_

_Smarmy egotist!_

Poor Miss Ingram, she was in for a roasting.

Perhaps he should step in, say something before Holmes got started.

"She _looks_?" Holmes sneered, suddenly leaning forward in his chair, latching on to those two words immediately. "What do you mean, _she looks_? Did you see this murder take place, Miss Ingram? Did you see who did it? Did _you_ do it?" he growled. "Are you here to make a confession?"

Cassia Ingram drew in a short, ragged breath a look of utter horror on her face, as though something that Holmes had said during his tirade had actually come a little too close to home for her comfort.

"No."

A simple reply.

"I am no murderer, Mr Holmes."

She paused to draw in a slow, calming breath before continuing.

"Again, if I'd seen it, if I had been there, knew who the perpetrator was, I'd have no need of you, Mr Holmes. The police would have had to take me seriously."

That much, Watson had to concede, was true.

The police would have taken a statement and started an investigation, not overlooking the fact that as well as being a witness, she could also be their main suspect. It was normal procedure.

Yet they had done neither of those things, and LeStrade would not have sent her here to be humiliated by Holmes, for that was what his friend was doing to the poor woman.

_Cruel bastard._

So, just how did Cassia Ingram know that a child had been murdered, if indeed a child had been murdered?

From the triumphant, gleeful glitter in Holmes' eyes, Watson suspected that his friend had already worked that out, was way ahead of him in this game and was gearing up to unleash himself, just toying with her, like a cat playing with a mouse.

_Tosser._

Watson wanted to tell Holmes not to be such a dick, but he knew that he would be wasting his breath.

There were times when he simply could not exercise any form of self control. He just had to let go.

This was going to be one of those times.

Watson could feel it.

Holmes had latched on to something that obviously rankled and he was out to have his fun.

_Duck! _

_Incoming!_

"I didn't see it. I wasn't there. I haven't killed anyone," Cassia Ingram spoke calmly, her voice throbbing with emotion, and the determination to stand her ground, even in the face of Holmes wrath.

She paused to draw in another soft breath.

"I am here because I want; I _need_ to prevent any more deaths, Mr Holmes. Yes, I know your reputation; yet, I thought you of all people might just be prepared to hear me out. I see now that I have made a mistake. I thought you might be different. Under the circumstances..."

Cassia Ingram rose slowly to her feet, and immediately began to sway alarmingly.

"Sit!" Holmes barked. "Before you fall down!"

He exploded forward and grabbed the young woman by the hands, yanking downward to direct her back into the chair.

Watson too was out of his seat, immediately the concerned doctor, pad and pen falling to the ground as he strode over to Cassia Ingram and squatted down in front of her as Holmes moved aside to give him room.

She looked awful.

The colour had drained from her face, her breathing rapid and as soon as Watson touched her wrist to take her pulse, he felt how clammy and cold she was, and he realized that she was exhibiting the classic symptoms of shock, and not just because Holmes had been sharp with her.

"A cup of sweet tea is in order, I think," he declared, turning to glare a warning at Holmes. "Thank goodness Mrs Hudson left everything ready to brew a fresh pot before she left."

He gave Holmes another warning look as he took himself off to the kitchen to brew the tea, and was aware of the tense silence in the other room as he waited for the kettle to boil.

_What the hell was wrong with Sherlock?_

_Why was he suddenly so angry?_

None of this made any sense to Watson. Neither Cassia Ingram's reason for being here, nor Holmes' sudden adverse reaction to her, his sudden irrational anger and scorn and the need to be hurtful and cruel.

Ok, well, that wasn't so unusual, Watson conceded, as he prepared the tea, but what he couldn't fathom was, what had suddenly set Holmes off.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter Seven**_

John Watson returned to the living room with a mug of sweet tea a few minutes later and handed it carefully to Cassia Ingram, noting the slight tremor in her hand as she took the mug graciously from him and uttered her thanks.

He noticed that she looked a little more composed and there was more colour in her cheek, no doubt from embarrassment at the scene Holmes had caused.

Holmes, seated in his favourite perch once more, still looked like a thunder storm brewing on the horizon, glowering at Cassia Ingram.

The tension in the room was so palpable you could cut it with a knife.

"Under what circumstances?"

Holmes finally spoke, his voice dripping acid as he leaned forward once more and pinned cold eyes on Cassia Ingram, no sympathy or understanding in either his expression or his posture, his usual disdainful expression on his face.

"Easy, Sherlock," Watson warned softly, suddenly worried about his friend's reaction to this situation. "I'm sorry, Miss Ingram, I'd like to say my friend isn't usually like this, but the truth is, he can be a bit of pig when he puts his mind to it."

"Don't apologize for me, Watson." Holmes snarled.

"Then stop acting like a prat," Watson countered.

"Miss Ingram," Holmes pointedly ignored Watson, and returned his attention to their visitor. "You claim to have information about a murder, the murder of a child," his voice dripped sarcasm now. "Yet, you fail to explain just how you came by this information."

Suddenly a nasty sneer formed on Holmes' lips.

It was a look that Watson knew well, and he closed his eyes and groaned softly.

_No._

_No Sherlock._

_No._

_Stop it ..._

His friend wasn't through with Miss Ingram yet, indeed, he was about to get very personal and extremely rude, if past experience was anything to go by.

"Oh ... Oh! Oh yes!"

Holmes suddenly jumped out of his chair, falling to his knees in front of Cassia Ingram, bringing his face up close to hers, and she almost spilled tea over both of them as she reacted with a jolt, but she did not try to move away from him, instead, she closed her eyes and the expression of resignation returned to her face now.

"Gotchya!" Holmes hissed, relieving her of the mug of hot tea before she spilled the contents over herself and him. "You're one of _those,_ aren't you!" he declared triumphantly.

"Sherlock!" Watson yelped, almost falling out of his chair.

_What the hell?_

"You know what we have here, don't you Watson?"

"You mean apart from the misogynist smartarse?" Watson retorted sarcastically, but the jibe went over Holmes head.

"You _are,_ aren't you? You're one of those unfortunate souls who claim to see 'beyond the veil'. You know about this 'murder' through telepathy and communing with the spirit world!"

Holmes rose to his full height and spinning around, paced up and down a few steps, pausing only to put the mug of tea down on his desk.

"What? What are you on about, Sherlock?"

"She's a psychic, or so she would have us believe," Holmes sneered, throwing a nasty look back at Cassia Ingram, who remained unmoved by his outburst, almost as though this was what she had been expecting all along.

"I hate the supernatural! There is _nothing _supernatural!" Holmes railed. "She is undoubtedly going to say that she has 'seen' this murder in some kind of trance ..."

"Dream, actually," Cassia Ingram corrected softly.

"Dream then. Whatever! Oh ho! No wonder Scotland Yard didn't take her seriously!"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, calm down!"

"Stop wasting my time! Leave. Now."

"Sherlock ..."

Cassia Ingram did not move. She remained in her seat, a look of determination on her flushed face now.

She wasn't going anywhere, no matter how nasty it got.

Holmes's eyes were glittering with anger and outrage now.

He was really incensed; like a volcano about to blow its stack, undoubtedly insulted that Inspector LeStrade would think that he would even give anything that this woman had to say credence.

He obviously had the bit between his teeth, incandescent, that this woman actually had the gall and the audacity to trouble him with such nonsense, however, before he could launch into yet another tirade, Cassia Ingram spoke in a calm, gentle voice, seizing the opportunity when Holmes was drawing a breath.

"We're not so different Mr Holmes, you and I," she spoke in a calm contralto voice. "You are neither a freak, nor a fake," she regarded him with sad green eyes. "You're just a pompous, sanctimonious, arrogant prick, but so are ninety percent of the male population."

She turned her attention to Watson then.

"Present company excepted. Thank you for the tea, Dr Watson."

She rose from her seat again, more steadily now, obviously having decided to leave of her own volition, with her dignity intact, and not because Holmes had ordered her out, and began to move across the room.

She did not want to go.

There was so much that she needed to say to the supercilious twit, but Holmes was not in a receptive mood and it would accomplish nothing, if anything, if she persisited in the face of his anger and cyniscm it would put him even more at odds with her and make it more difficult for her to convince him.

But she was also anxious that she might not be granted another audience with the genius consulting detective.

She had to find something to get his attention, and she needed to find it quickly.

"You were lucky you weren't charged with wasting police time," Holmes sneered as she drew level with him.

"I'm not wasting anyone's time, the police, yours, or even my own, Mr Holmes," she told him in even tones, stopping to look back at him.

"Why did you come here? Knowing that I would see through your little game? Oh yes, I know that you came here, even though you didn't trust me. You rather suspected the reaction that you would get. You say you know my reputation. I don't suffer fools gladly and I am a logical man. I don't believe in hocus pocus ..."

"Yes, I knew all of that, and more."

"Then why put yourself through this?" Watson found his voice now.

"I wanted you to prove me wrong, Mr Holmes. I had hoped that you might just be able to rise above your prejudices and be more of a man than you usually are, and less of a child. I had it on good authority that whilst you can be an ass of the first water, you can also sometimes think outside the box, and you would understand. Under the circumstances. I was wrong. I see that now is not the time to try to reason with you. I'd just be wasting my breath."

She made a move to walk away again.

"You keep saying that. Under what circumstances?" Holmes demanded in frustration.

_What did she think she knew about him?_

_Did she think she could manipulate him?_

_Did she think she could appeal to his better nature?_

_Ha!_

"Like I said, we are not so different from each other, although, personally, I don't feel the need to deliberately hurt people to make myself feel better."

_Touche._

Watson found himself rooting for Cassia Ingram.

Holmes, as usual, was being a complete berk and it was good to see someone standing up to him.

Someone other than himself that was.

We both have a gift, or a curse, call it what you will. Some extra sense, or deep seated conviction that we believe in. We can't turn it on or off with the flick of a switch and neither can we ignore it. We are what we are, Mr Holmes. Neither of us can be more than that, and both of us refuse to be anything less."

"We both exist on the fringes, using instincts and insights that we cannot always explain, trusting in ourselves and our convictions that ultimately we are right. We both believe in what we are doing. More importantly, we both believe that what we are doing is right."

"Yes, I knew the kind of reaction I would get from the ice cold, logical Sherlock Holmes. It's nothing new to me, although I suspected that you might enjoy it rather more than the average man or woman in the street, and I was right. And yet, I still came here. I took your mockery and your scorn, because I have a strong conviction that I have information that will end a killing spree, and you are the only avenue left open to me."

"I had hoped that the death of an innocent child might actually inspire some feelings in you. I didn't care what you thought of me. I don't need your support. I really don't need you to believe in my gift or me. The children, Mr Holmes. The children need you. They are why I am here, why I persist in the face of ridicule. The children."

There was such sincerity in her voice, John Watson swallowed and suddenly found a lump in his throat.

"Oh, bravo, Miss Ingram! I suppose the blonde haired, blue eyed angel came to you and begged you to help her," Holmes mocked scornfully as Cassia Ingram set out towards the door once more, and Watson let out a deep sigh, disgusted with his friend's attitude.

"You really are a cold fish, aren't you, Mr Holmes. You really are incapable of feeling anything," Cassia Ingram turned to look back at him.

"Sticks and stones."

"You can't feel anything for others, you are an emotional cripple, Mr Holmes, but you can feel self pity, can't you?"

"Caring doesn't stop people dying, Miss Ingram," Holmes ignored her words, repeating something that he had told Watson when they had first met.

"Cold, clear unemotional logic and working out the puzzle, that saves lives, and people like you, sending the police on a wild goose chase, tying up precious resources when they could be following tangible leads also gets people killed," he told her haughtily.

"Up yours."

"Charmed, I'm sure."

"You did rather ask for that, Holmes." Watson interjected with amusement.

"Good day, Miss Ingram, don't let the door slap you in the backside on the way out, wouldn't want you falling down the stairs."

"Oh we're not done, Mr Holmes. I need you. So I'm going to have to convince you. I hate unfinished business, and so do you."

"I think not, I'm far too busy on _real_ cases."

"Suffer the little children, Mr Holmes. Even you must have a conscience. Are you willing to take the chance that I might _not _be a fraud? A charlatan? Can you risk another innocent young life? Not even you are _that_ hard and uncaring. I think not," she threw his own words back at him.

"You want proof that I am the real deal, Mr Holmes? Fine. I have proof. I could tell you things right now, things about yourself that would make Dr Watson's hair curl, but the mood you're in right now, you'd probably say that I Iooked you up on the internet."

"Indeed."

"As you did I."

"Naturally."

"You have all the answers, don't you, Mr Holmes."

"Usually."

"See, there is that supreme self confidence again. You're very pleased with yourself, aren't you? Be careful you don't trip over your pride, Mr Holmes."

"Goodbye, Miss Ingram," Holmes dismissed her.

"No, not goodbye, adieu, until the next time."

Cassia Ingram gave Holmes a saccharine smile, but then suddenly her expression changed, as though something had just occurred to her.

Instead of taking the final steps and opening the door, Cassia Ingram reached long, slim fingers into the pocket of her slacks and produced a thin white card.

She walked back towards Holmes, and slipped it carefully into the top pocket of his jacket.

"I've already got your number," Holmes drawled sarcastically.

"And I yours."

Suddenly she was reaching up to Holmes, gently cupping her right hand against his jaw as her left came up behind him, gently cradling the back of his head.

A jolt shot through Holmes body.

Watson actually saw it, and was just as startled by the physical reaction as his friend was, as he watched the colour suddenly drain from Holmes' face.

Before he had time to recoil and extricate himself from her touch, Cassia Ingram was standing on tip toes, leaning her mouth close to Holmes ear, her next words meant only for him.

"Cela passera aussi. This too shall pass."

She withdrew quickly from him, walked across the room, pausing in the open doorway to give one last look back at Holmes.

"I'll be seeing you," and with that she disappeared out of the door before Holmes had time to react.

Watson heard her going down the stairs, and then a few minutes later, he heard the street door close, and when he looked back at his friend, Holmes looked as if he had been hit in the solar plexus, as he staggered back across the room, quivering arms supporting him as he leaned heavily against the mantle, head bowed, briefly.

_Now what the hell was all that about? _

_What had gotten into Sherlock?_

Watson made to move to the door, still concerned about Cassia Ingram's physical well being, but Holmes caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and snapped out: "Leave her!"

"She's in shock, Sherlock. She wasn't faking that!"

"She'll be alright. You won't catch her anyway. She had someone waiting to take her home. They'll be long gone before you even get down the stairs."

"Nice one, Sherlock," Watson grunted sarcastically now. "You really excelled yourself. I thought you were going to try to stop being such a wanker ..." he added for good measure, then realized that Holmes still looked out of sorts.

"Are you alright?" Watson immediately switched his allegiances back to his friend, who looked more than a little shaken and non-plussed, like he'd well and truly had the stuffing knocked out of him.

_What had Cassia Ingram said to him to illicit such a reaction from Holmes?_

"I'm fine," Holmes ground out, although he looked anything but fine.

"Oh, don't mind me, I'm sure. I'm only the one with the bloody medical degree, after all."

There had obviously been more going on in the sub text that he wasn't skilled enough to pick up on, Watson silently admitted to himself.

But right now, he felt in need of a drink, and he didn't mean sweet tea either, and Sherlock looked like he could do with one too, and time to pull himself together and gather his thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter Eight.**_

Cassia Ingram marched down Baker Street, lips clamped together in a fine line, fists clenched furiously at her sides as she rounded the corner at the end of the street, and marched up to the petrol blue and white Mini parked illegally at the curb.

She was fuming.

It was a marked contrast to how she had felt when she had arrived on the same street not so long ago.

She had felt numb.

Totally drained emotionally, and beside herself with anxiety.

Now she was so angry, she felt like she was going to explode.

In fact, she didn't know how she had stopped herself punching Sherlock Holmes, except that she would probably have cut her hand to ribbons on those perfectly sculpted cheek bones!

_Damn the man!_

She yanked open the passenger side door and slid into the Mini, slamming the door behind her, rocking the little car violently, as the driver turned the ignition on, depressed the clutch with her foot and selected first gear.

She was, however far more angry with herself.

Cassia had been in this exact same position many times before, and knowing that on this particular occasion she was walking into a lion's den, she had resolved to keep her cool and not rise to his bait.

She had failed miserably.

She hadn't had enough control over her emotions.

Last night's dream had been the most vivid and terrifying yet, she was still feeling overwhelmed and more than a little violated, and she simply couldn't put the images out of her mind.

Then he had started to attack her, belittle her gift.

She had only just held on to her composure long enough to leave without embarrassing herself completely and she was furious with herself.

What exactly had she accomplished?

_Bugger all!_

_Why did it always have to be so difficult?_

"I won't ask how it went," the driver, a young brunette woman, similar in age and size to Cassia Ingram quipped, indicating to pull the little car out into the flow of traffic and releasing the handbrake.

"I don't need to be a psychic to know that he blew you off. Your face is a picture, love. It says it all."

"Just drive, Maddie," Cassia hissed, not trusting herself to say anything polite at the moment. "Please."

"Where to?"

"Back to your place, for now. If you think you can stand to have such a misery for a houseguest."

"Okey dokey. Your wish is my command, oh great one."

"Shut up, Maddie, l'm really not in the mood."

"So I see."

Cassia threw her friend a cold, withering, warning look, one that she knew well. It politely asked her to back off and give her time.

"Ok, this is me shutting up."

After several minutes of negotiating heavy London traffic, Maddie, The Honourable Madeleine Fitz-Patrick, to be exact, finally broke the silence, for she could tell that her oldest friend was finally feeling a little calmer.

"So, is he as gorgeous in person a he is on the telly and in the newspapers?"

"Oh yes, but he has absolutely no idea how attractive he is. Don't get your hopes up, Mad; he's as sour as a lemon and completely sexless. A sexual in fact, and the only thing on his vastly superior mind is solving crime and making sure people know just how smart he is and how stupid they all are."

"Pity. Such a waste," Maddie chuckled. "So, he gave you a hard time."

It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

"Don't they always?" Cassia sighed heavily. "I expected it, of course I did. I just wish it didn't always have to be that way. This is hard enough without having to face people's scorn and cynicism and ridicule. Oh, I know its human nature to debunk things that we don't understand, but he was really enjoying himself."

"It would be nice, just for once, to find someone with an open mind, someone who is at least receptive to the possibilities. Lord, that man has a mouth on him!"

Cassia leaned back in her seat and closed her eye, recalling the nasty expression on Sherlock Holmes handsome, sculptured face as he had tried to make her feel like something nasty on the soles of his shoes.

"And he's magnificent when he's full flow!"

A soft smile began to tug at the corners of her lips now.

He really was the most beautiful man she had ever laid eyes on, but unlike most women, the beauty she saw was not just physical, it also radiated from his heart, and his soul.

His aura was beautiful, vibrant flowing colours, but like the man, it too was ever so slightly flawed.

It told her that all was not well with Mr Holmes.

But that was a different matter altogether.

Or was it?

Was that what the message hd been about?

_This too shall pass?_

Sherlock Holmes was going to be a challenge, but, she was up for it.

She _had_ to be.

"Easy, tiger." Maddie chuckled.

"No fear, Maddie. You'd get more reaction from a brick wall. The man is an emotional iceberg. You'd get freezer burn! He's a pompous, arrogant, supercilious clever dick, full of his own self confidence and self importance, he's smug, cruel and hateful and oh so superior, in fact, he's a real tosspot!"

This elicited a giggle from Maddie Fitz-Patrick.

"We've known a few of those in our time, old duck," she chuckled.

"He's also beautiful, inside and out, complex, IQ off the scale, brilliant and instinctive but uncomplicated. He says exactly what he thinks, and doesn't care how it sounds or what reaction he gets."

"I think he likes to shock, he definitely likes to insult and belittle anyone he feels is beneath him, which is about ninety nine percent of the population of the world in his view! What you see is exactly what you get. You either love him, or hate him, and believe it or not, he inspires a lot of respect and admiration and affection from those closest to him, even if he doesn't reciprocate. But there is no middle ground with him."

"Charming. He made quite a first impression."

"He's a good man, Maddie, a man with a good heart and a strong sense of right and wrong, trying to do the right thing. He would die for what he believes in, and, I believe he would kill for the same reasons, but has no idea about the social niceties and social graces."

"He doesn't have feelings, or at least he denies to himself that he has any, because whilst that used to be the case, it isn't now, and that's thrown him, and he doesn't know how to deal with emotions in others."

Cassia sighed softly.

"And, like it or not, he's all I've got."

She winced as Maddie took the corner leading to her swanky apartment in one of the best parts of town, a little too quickly and the rear wheels of the Mini briefly made contact with the curb.

"I've got to find some way to convince him that there is more to this life than he thinks he knows."

"But you told him about your dream, didn't you? Couldn't he see how it affects you?"

"Sort of. Actually, I didn't get much chance to tell him any details. He was far too pleased with himself for outting me as 'one of those poor unfortunates who claim to see beyond the veil'," Cassia quoted verbatim.

"Oh boy."

"I've been called worse things. The point is, from the moment he deduced that I was claiming to be a psychic; he shut down on me, closed his mind and stubbornly refused to entertain any notion that I might have something of value to say. He was having too much fun trying to insult me and make me feel like the lowest form of life on Earth."

"As ever it was, so shall it be ..." Maddie intoned, bringing the little car to a halt at the curb outside her apartment building with a screech of tyres and yanking on the handbrake as she cut the engine.

"Yes," Cassia replied forlornly. "But that's what I'm talking about. Why does it always have to be a battle?"

"So, what are you going to do now?"

"Keep chipping away. I have to suffer, so why shouldn't I make him suffer too?"

Maddie nodded knowingly.

She and Cassia had been friends since boarding school, sharing the same dorm, and she had borne witness many times over their years of sharing sleeping quarters, to the dreadful 'psychic' dreams and nightmares that sometimes consumed Cassia, and not always in the dead of night either, and how they took over physically and emotionally, often making her ill until she got to the bottom of them.

"I'll find a way to convince him. I have to. I know it won't be easy. He's so hostile, resistant, but, I think I may already have found a tiny chink in his armour."

"Oh?"

"I gave him a little something to think about, planted a seed of doubt. I'll have to wait a while to see if it germinates, of course, but he knows as well as I do that I won't give up. I can't. I simply can't. Lives are at stake, Maddie. I know it, and if the police won't take me seriously, I have to find a way to make Mr Sherlock Holmes at least stop ranting long enough to listen to what I have to say."

"Good luck with that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you said he was stubborn. You are equally as obstinate and pig headed my old love, so we could have a serious case of the immoveable object meeting the irresistible force! There is going to be a helluva bang!"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter Nine.**_

"What is it with you? Do you get out of bed every morning wondering who you can insult, belittle degrade and generally piss off, or what?"

There was no reply, and Watson emitted a long, heavy sigh.

He hadn't really expected one.

"So, what happened there, Sherlock?" He asked, changing tactics, nursing a liberal splash of brandy in a balloon glass.

Holmes too was sipping at a similar glass of the dark amber liquid, pulling a face briefly as the strong alcohol burned his throat as he swallowed.

"I've seen you go off on one before, but you've never been quite _that_ bad," Watson remarked, swirling the brandy around his glass.

He was sitting in the chair recently vacated by Cassia Ingram, watching Holmes carefully, relieved to see that the colour had now returned to his cheeks.

"People like her prey on the recently bereaved, in their weakened emotional state. They are all con artists and some of them are even criminals, bleeding people dry, a kind of blackmail, and the idiots' part with their money just so they can get some pathetic message from their loved ones beyond the grave. Other people seek people like her out to find out their future, and get their hopes raised that a lottery win is in the cards, or they are going to find Mr or Miss right around the next corner. It's all utter nonsense!"

Holmes' tone was scathing.

"I've outted many such frauds over the years. Perhaps that is why LeStrade directed her to me. He knows how I feel about such leeches. Perhaps he wanted me to look into her, see if she was up to something criminal, and at the same time he probably thought that it would be fun to wind me up."

"Besides, people like that give people like me a bad name. They go to the police claiming that they can help solve crimes, and muddy the waters, so when someone like me goes to them with valid information, they get treated like any other nutter wasting the police's time."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Yes."

"Bollocks! You are so full of it. People like Cassia Ingram are no threat to what you do, Sherlock. The police never take them seriously any way. Now you, they might not like it, but ..."

"Thank you, Watson," Holmes looked up from the contents of his glass and smiled softly at his friend's back handed compliment.

"I don't want to say I told you so," Watson couldn't resist the temptation.

"Then don't."

"Look, Sherlock, just because you don't believe in that sort of thing, it doesn't mean that it is all bunkum. She seemed pretty sincere to me. She didn't make any outrageous claims, indeed, my friend; she didn't really get a chance to say much of anything after you got on your high horse. What happened to hearing her out? What happened to empathizing with being in her position with the police? What happened to 'when I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad, must be the truth?"

"Doesn't apply to the supernatural, John. That can neither be proved nor disproved." Holmes scoffed. "It's subjective. Emotional. Either you are inclined to believe, or like me, you think it's a load of old codswallop. Flip the coin one way and you'd believe anything you're told, the other side of the coin, you wouldn't believe it if it hit you square between the eyes. Some people refuse to believe what they see. I am not one of those. I trust in my senses, that's all."

"You say it can't be proved, but there are those who say they prove it every day, and many that believe in them."

"Deluded."

"So what exactly did she say that made you lose it like that?"

Holmes shrugged absently and then drained his glass, his brain still trying to process the words that she had chosen to mutter into his ear before taking her leave.

"You have such strong opinions on the subject, I don't think, short of hitting you over the head with a shovel and beating it into you, she could find anything to convince you that she's on the level. At least she had the sense to withdraw, live to fight another day."

"Hmmmm."

And she had left a rather intriguing parting shot across his bows, Holmes recalled once again.

"I would have thought this was right up your street, the wackier the better usually."

"Not the supernatural, John. I have never dabbled in that. Indeed, I have often gone out of my way to prove that there are no such things as genuine mediums, clairvoyants or psychics."

"What if Cassia Ingram happens to be the first real psychic you've come across?"

"Then I'll eat my scarf!" Homes snorted.

"What did you make of her? How did you know? Not telepathy, obviously. Did you peg her as a fake clairvoyant as soon as she walked into the room?" Watson quizzed, smirking. "I mean, it wasn't the flowing gaudy robes and beads and the waft of incense that did it."

"What did _you_ make of her?" Holmes swiftly turned the tables back to Watson, not appreciating his amusement.

_I knew this was coming ..._

"Actually, I rather liked her. She has guts. I thought she did really well in the face of your sarcasm and hostility. When you're in full flow like that it's akin to being in the path of Hurricane Katrina, but she stood her ground," Watson grinned, but Holmes refused to rise to the bait.

"Ok, first, she was obviously upset about something. I think she'd probably been crying before she came here. Red eyes, croaky voice, very flat emotionally. Calm, almost too calm, as though she had stiffened her resolve, and although she was nicely dressed, she hadn't paid attention to her appearance, the toothpaste drip on her chin that she failed to wipe away ...'

Holmes frowned.

He had missed that one.

He must be slipping.

_Good old Watson._

_He was improving._

"No make-up, not even lippy, when most women wouldn't be seen dead out of the house without their mask on, and no jewellery, just a cheap watch, functional but not fancy. And her hair was a bit untidy."

"Not her usual style, she was distracted and in a hurry," Holmes concurred, finally pulling his thoughts together. "And no purse, or handbag."

"Nor crystal ball either, for that matter," Watson could not resist a grin.

"The dream." Holmes mused. "Whatever she dreamed, it definitely frightened her," he conceded in a low baritone voice.

"She couldn't get back off to sleep, probably not until just before dawn and then she slept heavily, awoke late, was a little slap dash in her ablutions and careless about her appearance. She had no doubt selected her clothes before retiring, but something upset her so profoundly her mind wasn't on her usual morning routine," he elaborated, grateful to be back on familiar ground.

"I've had nights like that myself," Watson recalled.

Many nights filled with nightmares about the fighting in Afghanistan and the friends he had seen killed, and more recently, Holmes himself, falling through the air off Bart's roof, arms and legs flayling, his brains splattered all over the pavement.

Holmes voice broke into his thoughts, and Watson was grateful.

"But dreams are just that, our subconscious mind dealing with difficult things that we cannot face while awake. Just because it was vivid and disturbing it doesn't mean it really happened," Holmes dismissed logically.

"Interpreting dreams is notoriously difficult, because things that happen in dreams are misleading, people think they mean one thing, when in fact, they often mean the opposite, or nothing at all. Basically, dreams lie, and people read into them what they want."

"Remind me not to share any of my dreams with you."

"You said that you thought she was in shock?"

"Yes. Her pulse was elevated; her respiration rapid, pupils dilated and her skin was clammy to the touch."

"That could be from the exertion of the walk here and the climb up those stairs."

"No, she was cold to the touch, if it was just perspiration, she would have been warmer. When a body is in shock, the blood travels away from the extremities to protect the major organs. That's why people shiver when they are in shock, and lose their colour."

"Yes, she was trembling," Holmes also recalled now that her hands had been cold too.

"After the way you went after her, I'm not surprised."

"I'm not unaware that my behaviour was less than perfect," Holmes sighed deeply, his tone irritated, and then he raised the balloon glass to his lips and took a gulp of his brandy with a grimace. "I'm not proud of myself, just in case you were wondering."

"Another?" Watson offered but Holmes quickly shook his head, realizing that alcohol did not mix well with the medications that he had been prescribed; he probably shouldn't have accepted that one.

And he needed a clear head.

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, is this going to be your latest crusade? Revealing to the world that Cassia Ingram is a sham?"

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock; are you really that cold hearted? Did anything that she said penetrate that ice block you call a heart by any chance?"

"I've told you before, I'm reliably informed that I don't have one, or a good nature to appeal to," Holmes reminded, then continued. "Yes. A couple of things, actually," he added, sighing tiredly, the fingers of his right hand fluttering upward to pinch the bridge of his nose briefly.

"Oh?"

There was surprise in Watsons' voice.

_So maybe there was hope for his friend after all._

Watson had once accused him of being a machine, but since his return, Sherlock had put some effort in to trying to understand emotion and sentiment and how his life affected those around him, not asking for, but accepting nevertheless, the affection and respect he got from Mrs Hudson and Watson, and, somewhat grudgingly, even Mycroft on occasion.

He didn't fully understand it, didn't claim to feel anything himself, but at least he wasn't the iceberg he had been when Watson first met him.

The Moriarty experience had changed Holmes perspective in that regard, for the better.

Holmes wasn't alone, and his very existence had a knock on affect to those around him, and now he knew it.

But then there were times when he reverted back to type, as witnessed recently by Cassia Ingram.

"Suffer the little children, John."

"Yup, I thought she scored a direct hit with that one," Watson smiled softly.

Her words had affected him too.

As a caring, compassionate man, there was no way he could tolerate the idea that children were being slaughtered just for some maniac's pleasure, and even if he didn't show it, Holmes was not immune either.

"Everyone goes gaga at the thought that a precious little child might be in danger," Holmes sneered again.

_Did I say there was hope for him?_

_Maybe not then..._

"But she is right. I can't take the chance that she is, God forbid, actually genuine. I can't risk that there is a child killer out there on the loose, just because I'm a cold, cynical, heartless, unfeeling bastard."

"Just one problem, there's been no report of a child's body turning up, anywhere."

"Not in London, granted, but London isn't the centre of the universe, John, and the thing about clairvoyance is that it is global. Spirit does not recognize countries, borders. If there has been a murder, and I'm still not convinced there has been, it could be anywhere in this country, or the whole world for that matter."

"Bloody hell!"

_When did Sherlock have time to find out about these kinds of things?_

_And why would he even bother if he was so certain that it was complete nonsense?_

"It's no easy task. Not only do we not have any idea where to start, we have no body, and therefore, no physical evidence to follow. We have no time frame. We do not know if this murder is recent, or happened years ago. We have no idea if or where this murder happened, and no idea of modus operandi to lead us to the killer."

"We're buggered. But, if you'd heard her out, Miss Ingram might have been able to fill in the blanks."

Holmes threw Watson a sour look.

"I can't help being who and what I am, John. Miss Ingram was right about that too. I have a logical, orderly, analytical mind. I believe in tangibles, the things that I can see and hear, taste and touch, not smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand or incantations or bell, book and candle," Holmes scoffed.

"She didn't actually say she was a witch, Sherlock," Watson reminded. "She could have parked her broomstick downstairs, I suppose, but I didn't spot any warts or hairs on her chin."

Watson grinned, Holmes sour expression indicating that he had scored a hit this time around.

_No, just a toothpaste drip, which_ I_ missed._

"In fact, we don't even know for sure that she is actually a working medium. You said there was nothing about her on the internet. If she was working as a psychic, fleecing people for cash, that's one of the best places to drum up business."

"She could be using a professional name. Gypsy Rosalea or Madame Arcady."

"She gave you her card."

"So she did."

Holmes extracted the thin white card from his jacket pocket and glanced at it quickly. However, there was nothing there except a mobile telephone number etched in silver along with the name, Cassia Ingram.

"Anything?"

"Nothing helpful, but it was worth a try."

"And anyway, Sherlock, even if she is a witch, we stopped burning them at the stake a long time ago. You know, some people actually find spiritualism and clairvoyance comforting."

"Did you visit one when you thought _I_ was dead?" Holmes snapped.

"No. I was too shocked, and, if you must know, too bloody angry with you. I didn't much want to hear anything you might have said in your defence of what you did, and I was certain you wouldn't want to hear my thoughts on the subject. And, I was too much of a gentleman to say those things out loud in company."

"So you went to see your therapist instead. Did it help?"

"Visiting a psychic is the same as seeing a therapist to some people," Watson side stepped the question. "People seek and find comfort and reassurance wherever they can."

"And there are those who prey on the bereaved, extracting money to produce those words of comfort that people so desperately want to hear."

"Cynic."

"Realist," Holmes corrected sharply. "If there really is something beyond this life, then why hasn't some high profile decedent come back to rave about it all over the television, gushing about how wonderful the afterlife is? I'm sure there are scores of Elvis fans who would be delighted to rush to join him over there," Holmes scoffed.

"So, I ask again, what are you going to do, Sherlock?"

"Well, actually, I thought I might return my cardiac muscle to the freezer and fiddle while London burns," Sherlock drawled acidly.

"Pillock."

"What would _you_ do in my place, John?"

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Watson sighed deeply. "Well, one thing's for sure; I'd not sit around biding my time and contemplating my navel. I'd hit the internet and try to find out if there are any missing kids."

"A pointless venture. Where do you begin? The way the so called psychic gift works, this murder could have happened yesterday, last week, last month, last year, last Century."

"Yes, yes, I get your point, but I'd have to _do _something!"

"Or it may not have happened at all ... _Yet._"

"No, she said there _has _been a murder. Definitely past tense."

"Very good, Watson."

"There is a chance that it could be recent, and it's entirely possible that the body simply hasn't turned up yet. At any rate, I wouldn't be able to rest until I'd at least tried to find out if a child has been reported missing."

"Well then, John, it seems we are in agreement, after all, even if it doesn't mean much. We still don't have a time frame as a point of reference. However, if we assume that it is recent, a child could have just got lost, wandered off, or just stayed out later than normal because it's lost track of time. Not every missing child has been snatched by a maniac, or even been taken by a stranger."

Holmes reminded, recalling a very high profile case from a few years ago when the mother had arranged for her son to 'go missing' and had milked the situation in the press, only for it to be discovered later that the child was with a distant relative, and it had all been about reward money offered by the newspapers.

"People get divorced and when one parent gets custody, some times out of desperation, the other parent decides to take things into their own hands," he added thoughtfully.

It was fast becoming a trend for angry husbands, especially foreign Nationals, to spirit their children away to their homelands to spite their former spouses.

"Or, perhaps a child _has _been kidnapped, the police are aware and have asked for a D notice to be issued, so no word of it gets into the newspapers, and they don't tip off the kidnapper that they are on to him, but I am sure that that is the first thing that LeStrade would have checked into, with other forces, not just the Met. Or, a child could simply have wandered off and the parents haven't notified anyone yet. Nevertheless, it is a start, I suppose."

Watson knew that Holmes was right.

There was any number of reasons why a child could go missing, not all of them sinister.

Yet he could not get away from the fact that Cassia Ingram had said murder.

"And where do you suggest we start first? What country?"

"Here. The UK."

"Why so?"Holmes was genuinely curious to know why Watson was so sure.

"Well, it doesn't seem logical to me that the spirit world would be giving Miss Ingram messages and information about a murder in a country she doesn't know and couldn't interpret clues about."

"Interesting."

"If it were in another country, surely the spirit world would choose a medium from that particular country, not someone from thousands of miles away who would struggle to find any point of reference. No. I say it's here, somewhere in Britain."

"Very good, Watson. You're thinking for a change."

"Besides, she didn't say it _wasn't_ in this country. She could have said, 'there has been a murder in Siberia'." Watson added. "But she didn't."

"No, she didn't, but that doesn't mean anything. As you pointed out, I didn't give her much chance to say anything."

Holmes made a sour face.

"Is a body turning up the only proof that you will accept, Sherlock?"

"I don't follow."

"Well, you could always swallow your prejudice and your pride and speak to Miss Ingram again, find out what she believes she saw in her dream, what scared her out of her wits, and what makes her think she has information that can help catch a killer."

"No matter what she said, Watson, she can only prevent further murders if she can predict the future. She used the past tense, as you so rightly pointed out, so that means she is coming to that particular party late. If she is for real, and I am not ready to accept that she is, she is only able to see what has passed, not what is ahead," Holmes surmised. "But, I won't need to seek her out."

Watson frowned at Holmes.

"You heard what she said. Unfinished business, and all that. Besides, she made perfect sense when she said that we can neither of us ignore our own particular gifts, or curses. They also hold certain responsibilities for us both. She will be back, because she has to. I have no doubt, for if there is anything I have learned in dealing with mediums and people who claim to have foresight, there is one fundamental rule that they always follow."

"They have to pass on the message they are given by the spirits. Just as I have to tell the police my ideas, even if I look foolish and they laugh me out of the building. Like me, they are compelled to share what they know. Miss Ingram failed to do that, and I doubt that she will have a minute's peace until she does so. So, you see, Watson, I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that we have not seen the last of Miss Cassia Ingram."


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter Ten**_

For the next three days, every time they left, or returned to Baker Street, Holmes and Watson could not fail to spot Cassia Ingram. She had taken up a permanent position on the other side of the street, in clear sight so it was impossible to miss her.

"They'll be billing her for back poll tax," Watson had quipped the second time he spotted her, but Holmes had remained silent on the matter.

Every time he saw her, John Watson could not fail to notice how haggard and haunted the poor woman looked, and could not understand how Sherlock found it so easy to simply ignore her and go about his business.

_If he had decided to give her a chance to explain, why didn't he give her some sign that he was prepared to see her?_

_Why keep her dangling?_

_Why didn't she take things into her own hands and just march up to him and slap him around the chops and demand that he listen to her?_

John Watson would part with money to see _that_.

However, after the third morning, when Cassia Ingram had walked away when she realized that once again her luck was out, it suddenly occurred to Watson that perhaps _he_ was the reason she had never tried to make an approach.

Perhaps she thought that she might have more success if she spoke to Holmes alone.

"When are you going to put the poor woman out of her misery?" he had asked Sherlock when they had gone out, their destination, Bart's Hospital and an ongoing set of experiment Holmes was conducting, with the help of Molly Hooper.

"It's not up to me, Watson. You've seen her there, she's had ample opportunity to approach me and ask for another chance to explain, but still she resists."

"Perhaps she hasn't worked up enough nerve to face another onslaught," Watson had muttered darkly as the pair had climbed into the back of a black London cab.

When they returned to Baker Street late that afternoon, Holmes looking rather washed out and tired, even the extreme summer heat beginning to erode his usual cool and composure, Watson spotted Cassia Ingram on the other side of the street, further up than her usual observation post, and tried his best to distract Holmes as they alighted from the cab.

Once upstairs he made some flimsy excuse that he had forgotten that he had made arrangements to meet Mary, and hastily took his leave, although as he departed, he could not help wondering if Holmes was really coming down with something, or if it was a case that he was simply overcome by the heat and humidity.

Holmes had been nauseous most of the day, and distracted but had passed it off as a sick headache and had given both Watson and Molly a look that brooked no further questions on the matter.

It was true that most people were suffering with the extended heat wave.

No-one was immune.

They'd heard the same repetitive complaints all day.

_It's too damned hot. It's not healthy. _

_I've lost my appetite and all I want to do is drink. _

_We need a good thunder storm to clear the air. _

_How are you supposed to sleep?_

No wonder the world thought the British were obsessed with the weather.

It was all they could seem to find to talk about.

Either it was too hot, or too cold, too wet, or too dry, two different seasons in the course of one day at times, from one extreme to the other and whatever the weather was doing, it never seemed to suit anyone.

Watson emerged from 221B and scanned Baker Street, but there was no sign of Cassia Ingram.

_Damn._

He had obviously missed her.

He was just about to move to the curb to hail a cab when she suddenly emerged from the cafe beneath Holmes' digs, with a bottle of water in one hand and a Mars bar in the other.

Watson decided that it was high time that he took matters into his own hands.

She might be blessed with the patience of a saint, but he was not, and he was eager to see if he could learn anything to pass on to Holmes that might make his friend more accommodating and receptive to what she had to say.

"Miss Ingram," he greeted her cordially.

"Dr Watson,"

"Would you have a moment, Miss Ingram?"

"Cass. Yes, certainly," she acquiesced, perhaps realizing that here was an opportunity to appeal to an ally, someone who might interceded on her behalf.

If Holmes wouldn't see her, perhaps she could confide in Dr Watson, and he might be able to persuade Holmes to at least give her a fair hearing.

Watson walked to the cafe and held the door open for her, and then he selected a quiet table in the back and ordered Coke with ice and lemon.

"How is Mr Holmes?" Cassia Ingram asked, unscrewing the cap on her water bottle and taking a long swig, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"Why do you ask?" Watson found himself frowning at her. It was the last thing he had expected.

"It's the done thing, isn't it? Polite enquiries as to people's health? That's how we British normally start a conversation," Cassia Ingram smiled gently. "Hello. How are you? My next question would have been, how are you, Dr Watson?"

"I'm well, thank you. You, on the other hand, I deduce, are not."

"Troubled sleep, Dr Watson, but you know that already."

Holmes had been right.

She didn't look as if she had had a minute's restful sleep since he had last laid eyes on her.

"Would it help if you told me what is troubling you?" Watson enquired gently, after the waitress placed his drink on the table before him and departed.

"You are very kind, Dr Watson, and I appreciate the gesture, but you are not the one that I need to convince."

"So why haven't you made more noise, pounded the door down until he lets you in?"

"Do you really think that would work? Seems to me he would delight in my embarrassing myself on the street, making a spectacle, and, probably revel in calling the police and watch them cart me away, and I would still be no nearer my goal."

"Don't give up so easily."

"I'm not giving up. In fact, I was going to wait a while longer, see if you left early, and then I was going to beat the door down with my fist," she grinned now.

So, Watson had been right.

She wanted to see Holmes when he was alone.

Perhaps she preferred to have another confrontation with Holmes without witnesses.

"He's free now. No need to break the door down. I've got a key," Watson grinned conspiratorially at her. "And don't take any of his bull."

"Oh, don't worry, he won't run me out of his flat again, doctor. This time he will have to bodily throw me out. I have to find a way to get his attention. Believe me, it even crossed my mind to try to get him into court on a trumped up paternity suit, but it would take too damn long and no-one would believe he was capable of either passion or lust."

_Touché._

"You play dirty, Miss Ingram." Watson grinned.

"Cass."

"John."

"Not really. I'm usually pretty straight with people. I tried being polite and playing by the rules, John. You saw what happened. I've never seen anyone quite so gleeful and pleased with himself."

"Yes, he was an absolute rotter."

"Don't spare my blushes, John. He was a dickhead, but most people are when confronted with something they don't understand. They tend to shoot first and ask questions later. It's easier to poke fun than to try to accept that there might be something in it. I'm used to outrage and distrust and downright spite. I didn't think that he would be any different in that respect. However, I did think the case might mean something to him," she sighed wearily.

"You can lead the horse to water, but you can't make it drink. I've dealt with people like him all my life, John. What I do is not an exact science and I can be wrong, because I am human, and my interpretation of what I see can be off. I've never claimed to be perfect. I'm an interpreter of sorts, and sometimes I get the translation wrong."

Her explanation sounded plausible.

"And that's when I get into trouble, and people start to doubt. They think I'm a fraud, a con artist. The devil's spawn!" she laughed, but it was a bitter little laugh.

"In my experience, there are three types of people, John. It's a bit like believing in a higher authority, a God or whatever you want to call it. You're either devout, believe unconditionally and do not need proof, or, you're not sure but you don't want to take the chance that there could be a God and a heaven and if you don't believe, just a little, you might end up in the other place, roasting throughout eternity, so you keep a foot in both camps, and then there is the complete atheist, wouldn't believe if the Almighty showed up at their front door or they woke up the find the Rapture going on around them."

Watson recalled that Holmes had said pretty much the same thing. His analogy had involved two sides of the same coin, but it boiled down to the same thing.

"It's the same for me. I find that there are those who want to believe, who are desperate to believe that this not all there is, and that those whom they love who have gone on ahead are still watching over them and that they are happy and waiting for them."

"There are those who want to believe but just can't seem to make up their mind because they might look ridiculous if it turns out there is nothing too it after all, and then there are people like Mr Holmes. Totally closed to any possibility because there is no tangible proof, and of course, there is grist to his mill because there have been those who claim to be genuine who have been caught out too many times."

Watson silently admitted that what she said made a lot of sense.

He hadn't really thought about it like that before.

_So where was he in all that?_

Somewhere in the middle, he supposed, but he'd never really had cause to think much about it.

"But, there's the rub, John. I simply have to succeed in convincing Mr Holmes. I've been biding my time, picking my moment, but I realize that there will never be a right time. So how does one go about melting the glacier, doctor?"

"I'm not sure you can. He's been keeping an eye on the papers and the web, we both have, but the trouble is, Cass, there is still no report of a missing, or dead child anywhere."

"Don't you think I know that, John?" she sighed heavily. "If there were, you wouldn't need me, and my nightmares wouldn't be driving me round the ruddy bend!"

There was a tremor in her voice now, and Watson realized that her hand was shaking again.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes to the table top briefly, drew in a long, ragged breath, expelled it slowly, and then looked back up at him, her green eyes luminous and too big in her pale face. "I can't take much more of this."

Watson believed her.

It was taking an obvious physical and emotional toll on her.

She definitely wasn't faking it.

"Are you game? Will you take me up on my offer to let you in with my key?"

"I don't want to cause any trouble between you."

"We're big boys, Cass; we can take care of ourselves. I know how to handle him. Besides, he prefers nouns and adjectives and verbs to fists and knees and elbows. We throw our toys around for a while but we stop short of breaking things over each other's heads."

"He's not going to simply invite me in for tea, is he?" Watson shook his head gently. "Then I really don't see that I have any other choice. Thank you."

"I won't come in with you, I've got plans ..."

"Thank you, it's probably for the best. It's not that I don't want, or need you there, John, I've nothing against you, but, this is between me and him. He's the one I need to convince. He is the one who needs to hear what I have to say, and he will probably be less inclined to admit that he might be wrong if he has an audience."

Watson silently conceded that that much was true.

Holmes didn't like having to back down at all, he could be a real child about it, and it was much worse if he was in the company of people that he knew and respected.

He hated losing face.

"Don't take any nonsense, but bear in mind; he's feeling the effects of the heat too. His health and temper are suffering from it as much as the rest of us."

"He's human after all. I bet that doesn't sit well."

"No," Watson chuckled.

"Then I promise that I will try to be gentle with him, which, I dare say is more than he will be with me."

As it turned out, John Watson did not need to resort to deceit, for as he and Cassia Ingram walked up to the door of 221B, Mrs Hudson was just appearing at the door.

"Oh hello, dearie," she greeted Watson a little breathlessly, looking somewhat flustered. "Don't mind me. I'm just off out to get the evening newspaper for his Lordship up there," she rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"Barked out the order to go and get his paper, and couldn't resist giving me a mouthful about scratch cards. I mean, it's my only vice, and it's only a few pounds now and again," she grumbled. "I don't know what's wrong with him just lately, he's such a cross patch. Tetchy, all the time. Everything I say, everything I do these days seems to get on his nerves."

Mrs Hudson leaned toward Watson and lowered her voice.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say it was his time of the month!"

Watson had to force himself to bite back a snort of laughter.

"Don't upset yourself, Mrs Hudson. He's been like that with everyone. It's probably the weather," he reassured.

"Oh yes, isn't it awful, dear. The heat!" she declared, her right hand automatically rising to mop her brow, but then her expression changed, and Watson knew that she was thinking about her errant tenant again.

"He's never been the easiest, but just lately, I don't know. He changes his mood like the bloody weather, well, you know what I mean."

Cassia Ingram silently watched the conversation with interest.

It wasn't so much what the older woman was saying, but her tone and her body language, and the obvious concern and affection that she had for Sherlock Holmes.

It seemed her first impression about him had been right. That no matter how obnoxious he could be, he inspired a great deal of affection from those who cared about him.

"Look, I don't want to hold you up, Mrs H, I know what he's like if he's kept waiting for his paper," Watson interjected, knowing from experience that now that she was on to her favourite subject, the old woman would just keep waffling on. "But I was actually on my way home when I bumped into this young lady," he indicated to Cassia Ingram who was standing beside him, silent and observant.

"Here to see him?" Mrs Hudson again raised her eyes heavenward.

"Yes."

"A client I suppose."

"Yes, look, would it be an inconvenience for you to show her up, only I really do have to go. Meeting the wife," Watson gave her a cheeky wink.

"Oh well, yes, you'd better get off then, mustn't keep the new bride waiting," she smiled warmly at him. "You leave the young lady with me."

"Thanks Mrs H," Watson bent his head and planted a soft kiss to her cheek. "There's no need to tell Holmes that you saw me. Just say you opened the door and found the young lady on the doorstep."

"Oh," she seemed a little confused, but then gave a resigned shrug. "Ok, dear. Mum's the word."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Note: **I am really delighted with the stats for this story. It is so encouraging to see that people from all over the world have found this story and are keeping up with it. It is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfic and I am still unsure if I have the characters right and the canons of the show, so, if you are reading this I would appreciate some feedback, if you can find the time. If you like it, tell me, but if you don't, tell me what I am doing wrong and I will try to do better. Thanks to those who are following and have reviewed, it is much appreciated._

_**Chapter Eleven.**_

"Sherlock! You've got a visitor!" Mrs Hudson bawled up the stairs as Cassia Ingram followed her into the narrow hallway of 221B Baker Street.

"Did you hear me, Sherlock? Young lady to see you!" she yelled as she breathlessly laboured to climb the stairs. "Found her on the doorstep just now," she concluded as she walked into Holmes' living room only to find the young man nowhere in evidence.

"Oh, well he can't be far. Sit yourself down, dear, and I'll go and have a word."

Mrs Hudson disappeared through the door only to make a loud, shocked exclamation a few seconds later.

_"Sherlock!"_

Cassia Ingram quickly went to see what was wrong and found the elderly woman fussing over Sherlock Holmes, who was lying face down in the doorway of what was obviously the bathroom, his head poking out on to the narrow landing.

"Don't fuss so, Mrs Hudson. I'm alright," Holmes was trying to fend off her fussing hands.

"You _stupid_ boy! You're lying on the bloody floor, looking like death warmed over; you're obviously _not_ bloody alright at all!"

Mrs Hudson was sounding more and more panicked with every word, her voice rising hysterically.

"I'll go and see if I can catch Dr Watson."

"_No you will not_!" Holmes roared, stopping her in her tracks. "I slipped. Alright? It's as simple as that. I threw some water on my face and obviously got some of it on the floor. I didn't see it and I slipped."

He paused to take a breath.

"Why the hell am I explaining myself to you?" Holmes sounded disgruntled now, obviously embarrassed by the situation he found himself in, especially when he glanced over Mrs Hudson's bowed head as she returned her attention to clawing at his arm in an effort to try to help him up, and found Cassia Ingram standing on the landing watching proceedings with concern etched into her pale face.

"Will you get out of the way, Mrs Hudson! I can't get up with you clogging up the doorway like that."

However, the look that crossed his face, fleetingly, told Cassia Ingram that he had serious doubts that his legs would take his weight at all.

"Will you leave me alone!" He roared again, obviously ill at ease at finding himself in such a position and not having any control over the situation.

"_Shut up! Shut up, Sherlock!_ You ungrateful little sod!" Mrs Hudson snapped back at him, obviously very distressed to find her tenant in such a predicament.

"Mrs Hudson!"

"Might I make a suggestion, Mr Holmes?" Cassia Ingram came marching toward the bathroom now, a determined set to her shoulders.

"Why don't you do as Mrs Hudson says and shut up. You can rant as much as you like, but you're not going anywhere under your own steam right now. Why don't you admit defeat, graciously, and allow us to help you up? You might win the battle, but you won't win the war, so why waste any more precious energy?"

"Thank you, dear." Mrs Hudson threw her an appreciative look, grateful for her intervention and support and for stopping Holmes' tirade.

"Oh, very well," Holmes acquiesced, somewhat grudgingly. His ego might be dented, but he was still intelligent enough to know when he was bested.

She was right.

He wasn't going to be able to get to his feet alone.

All the energy had simply drained out of him, and his legs had refused to obey his commands.

He had been feeling nauseous all day, queasy and light headed, and had eaten little as a result, the heat had been oppressive and draining, and by the time he had reached Baker Street and his flat, his head had been hurting so badly he felt like banging it against a wall, the pressure inside so intense he thought it might explode, and all he had wanted to do was splash cold water on his face, down a fist full of pills and then lie down in a darkened room for a while.

He had accomplished the first task, but not before he had hung over the toilet commode, heaving and retching dryly for several long, agonizing minutes, but, as he had turned to exit the bathroom, he'd suddenly grown extremely dizzy and before he knew it was getting an up close and personal view of the bathroom linoleum flooring and landing carpet.

Grudgingly, Sherlock Holmes allowed the two women to assist him to his feet, and support him between them as they made their way slowly to the living room.

He flopped down into his chair, relieved to have made it to his destination without further mishap and wearily ran his fingers through his mop of hair.

_Oh Lord, what was happening to him?_

_This could not be good._

"I'll make you a cup of tea, and then I'll ring John ..." Mrs Hudson declared, heading for the kitchen, trying to hide the fact that she was close to tears.

"That _won't_ be necessary," Holmes called after her, but he suspected that he was wasting his breath again.

He knew that the old dear cared about him.

It was endearing, sometimes, but there were other times when he could cheerfully strangle her.

He was not in the mood for her mother hen act right now, his main priority, to get rid of Cassia Ingram and then go and lie down as he had originally planned, hoping that if he slept, he would feel better when he awoke.

"I don't need you to bother John. I'm fine. I told you, it was just a silly accident. Besides, I thought you were going for the newspaper, Mrs Hudson," he reminded her impatiently.

"You and your ruddy paper," she cussed as she appeared in the kitchen doorway. "And what about your tea?"

"I don't want tea. A glass of water will suffice."

"I'll see to it, Mrs Hudson." Cassia Ingram offered, realizing that Holmes was about to lose it big time with the old woman's incessant fussing.

"Oh."

"Go, Mrs Hudson. If I am not mistaken, this is a prospective client," he gave the old woman a pointed look. "What kind of impression do you think we are making?"

"Oh, yes, well ..."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Take your time. It's far too hot for you to be rushing about, remember your hip ..." Holmes called after the elderly woman as she grudgingly left the living room and made her way slowly and painfully down the stairs, muttering darkly and loudly about what an infuriating and ungrateful man he was as she went.

Cassia Ingram took the opportunity to go to the kitchen where she ran the cold tap for a few minutes before filling a glass, and then she returned to the living room and handed the glass to Holmes, who took it carefully from her, took a few short sips, then reached up to place the glass on the mantle beside him.

"So, you finally plucked up the courage to beard the lion in his den," Holmes drawled sarcastically. "Something Watson said," he elaborated when she frowned at him.

"May I sit?"

"Oh please do, make yourself at home. I'm at something of a disadvantage at the moment, Miss Ingram, a captive audience if you will, so why don't you fire away. I assure you, you won't get a better opportunity."

"Do you always have to be such a smart alec?"

"Get to the point, and then get out."

"That poor lady is beside herself with worry about you, Mr Holmes, and all you can do is act like an ingrate. You really have no idea how to be gracious and accept genuine affection, do you?"

"I won't say it again, Miss Ingram, get to the point."

"Drink your water and get your breath back. I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage of you in a moment of weakness."

"It's hardly that," Holmes scoffed, but reached for the glass never the less.

Cassia Ingram sat in the chair opposite him, easing herself back into the upholstery and made herself comfortable.

She was in no hurry.

It was now or never and she was going to have to tread very carefully.

He wasn't going to make it easy for her, but, she was prepared to wait him out.

As he had said, she would never get a better opportunity.

She fixed her eyes on Holmes and remained silent, content to just sit and watch him, watching her.

He looked a little better now, more colour in his cheeks and the stunned mullet expression had gone from his eyes.

He took the occasional sip from the glass of water, and she could not help noticing that there was a slight tremor in his fingers as he held the glass.

For his part, Holmes was grateful for the opportunity to get his equilibrium back and get his thoughts in order, and the only way he knew to do that was to observe Cassia Ingram and see if he could glean anything new about her.

Again, she was nicely dressed, to suit the weather, a pretty floral patterned pink summer dress, the kind with the long, layered skirt that almost fell to the ground, and a matching pale coral coloured shrug thingy to cover her arms and shoulders.

A tiny wallet on a thin leather strap was draped across her upper body.

She had money on her this time, so she had undoubtedly travelled here alone today. Probably every other day she had stationed herself across the road, too.

She had come prepared to stay as long as it took.

_Still tenacious Miss Ingram._

For today's footwear she had selected a pair of low heeled pink sandals and wore no stockings or tights.

She still hadn't put on any make up, but this time, she had chosen a simple silver necklace, a fine box chain with no pendent, to adorn her throat, and a pair of silver ball stud earrings glistened in her delicate earlobes.

Today, her hair was neater, artistically coiled in a chignon in the nape of her neck, and there was no hint of toothpaste on her chin.

She looked cool, calm and casual, but Holmes knew that she was anything but.

Actually, now that he looked closer, he realized that she looked wretched, her beautiful green eyes red rimmed and tired, with dark bluish purple smudges beneath the lower lids, a clear indication that she had not slept for several nights, her complexion pale.

There was also certain guardedness in her manner and in her eyes, almost as if she was deliberately measuring what she said to him so as not to rile him.

_Was she scared of him?_

The thought surprised Holmes.

So did his reaction.

He didn't much like the idea that he frightened her.

That had not been his intent.

Then he quickly quashed the idea, telling himself that if she _was_ scared of him, it was probably because she knew what he was capable of doing to her reputation.

A subtle change in Holmes expression suddenly alerted Cassia Ingram that he was starting to recover his wits.

He was still a little shocked by what had happened to him, but he was slowly putting it behind him.

He was a proud man and he disliked being seen as less than in control of everything in his life.

_Slipped eh?_

_Accident my big toe!_

Still, if that was what he preferred Mrs Hudson and his friends to believe, who was she to contradict him?

He was also beginning to exhibit small signs of impatience.

"Well?"

"Oh, please, Mr Holmes, can't we just sit here, quietly for a few minutes? Enjoying a little peace and quiet at the end of the day."

"Mrs Hudson will be back shortly," he reminded her coolly.

"I don't think so," Cassia Ingram gave him a conspiratorial smile. "She's just won £150.00 on a scratch card and is right now going round to her friend around the corner to tell her about her windfall, and what an ungrateful rat bag she has for a tenant," she confided. "Tea and cake all round. She won't be back for at least another hour."

"Really," Holmes sounded disinterested and tried to smother a yawn, as though he had expected this kind of ploy from her.

The statement could neither be proved nor disproved until Mrs Hudson returned, and Cassia Ingram would be long gone by then, probably with the inpression of his foot tattooed on her posterior.

"I like this room."

"Oh? Really?"

Holmes was surprised.

When it wasn't doing a good impression of a tip, the room was very masculine and functional.

It neither pleased nor displeased him.

It simply was home.

"Yes. There is a lot of positive energy here. _Your _energy. _Your_ personality."

"Or lack thereof, as some would have you believe," Holmes drawled sarcastically.

"Don't you get tired, Mr Holmes? Tired of the one-up-manship, the snide remarks, the witty repartee? Tired of the doubts, the ridicule, the always having to explain what is blatantly obvious to you but goes over everyone else's head? Don't you just get fed up to the back teeth of having to explain what you do?"

She did not wait for a reply.

"Well, so do I," Cassia sighed heavily.

"Will you please just get to the point, Miss Ingram?"

"Cass, please."

"I don't have time for this nonsense."

"Actually, Sherlock, may I call you, Sherlock?" she enquired politely.

He gave her a non chalont shrug.

"Actually, Sherlock, you have more time than you think."

Holmes inscrutable blue/grey eyes narrowed suspiciously as his heart unexpectedly skipped several beats in his chest.

_What did she say?_

_No, she couldn't know, could she?_

_No, he was simply reading too much into it._

How _could_ she know?

_She could not._

She was guessing.

_Ah, Miss Ingram, you are more astute than I gave you credit for._

"If you are to be believed, Miss Ingram, we all have more time than we think. Time here on this plain, and then, on the other side. Do they mark the passage of time over there, Miss Ingram?" he intoned sarcastically.

_Fine, have it your way, clever dick. _

_If you need me to spell it out for you, then so be it._

"Don't you find this facade of cold aloofness tiresome, Sherlock? We both know it is no longer a reflection of your true self. You've always had feelings but you've always been able to quash them, deny them, detach yourself from them, but that is no longer the case. You have discovered that you have friends, people who care, people, who surprisingly find your queer little ways, and _you_, endearing. They care about you unconditionally, simply because they can."

"And, in the last few months, you've discovered that you care too, and you're not sure how to handle those feelings. It scares you that you feel so strongly, because it reminds you that you are getting a little too close to the that line in the sand, the line that stops you from becoming just like the man who tried to destroy you. It's a very fine line, isn't Sherlock? You may still be on the side of the angels, but it wouldn't take much for you to take that last tiny step."

"And you hate that weakness in yourself, don't you. The realization that under the right circumstances, you could be pushed into becoming the very thing you loathe and fight against."

"You have come to realize that just by associating with you, these people who care can be made to be targets, by those who consider you to be their enemy, their very lives placed in danger because they care about you. I can understand that you don't want that responsibility, Sherlock, but alas, there is nothing that you can do about it. They won't stop caring about you, no matter how hard you try to push them away."

"Caring doesn't make you weak, Sherlock. You don't always have to be so cold and heartless and clinical. You need to learn to accept that you do have feelings. You are not a machine, and no man is an island after all."

"I know from experience that it can be rather hard work trying to care about someone who does not know how to reach out and reciprocate, who cannot let go and show their true feelings, but, like your friends, I don't let it stop me."

Her expression was a little sad now, and then she realized that she really _did _need to get to the point because that thunderous, outraged expression was beginning to dance in his eyes once more.

"Anyway, you're right, Sherlock. I'm tired of pussy footing around, tippy toeing around waiting for you to come to your senses."

"At last," Holmes sneered. "Now we get to the crux of the matter. Lay your cards on the table, Miss Ingram, after all you're here because you think that you can make a believer out of me," he mocked.

"Oh, I don't _think_, Sherlock. I _know_."

She suddenly sounded so confident, so sure of herself, and despite his misgivings, Holmes found himself intrigued.

He had to admit to a certain curiosity as to what her angle would be, and how she could possibly believe that he would actually fall for her tosh.

_Would she go into some kind of trance?_

_Did she really think that he was so gullible?_

_Please!_

However, it appeared that despite her words, Cassia Ingram was going to make him wait, for she was back to reclining comfortably in her seat, staring at him, and Holmes found it most disconcerting.

_Was that what it felt like, when he was observing other people?_

_Like one of his specimens under the microscope?_

"Don't you know it's rude to stare," he ground out impatiently at last. "What is it that you find so fascinating anyway?"

"Your aura."

"My _what_?"

Holmes had been expecting her to say something about his wretched cheek bones, or his eyes.

_Certainly not that!_

"Your aura," Cassia repeated softly, watching the ebb and flow of colours that surrounded Sherlock Holmes, and the dark reddish brown colour that seemed to be blurring the edges.

"I noticed it the other day. It's beautiful, by the way. Strong, vibrant colours, indicative of your strong personality and opinions, no doubt, but, it's not as stable as it should be. It seems to be fluctuating, fading then getting brighter again."

"My aura," he sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes heavenward in utter exasperation. "If you insist on continuing with this balderdash, I might just have to throw you out of the window."

"Very drool, Sherlock. I know you are more than capable. Usually."

He gave her a withering look but made no response.

"Your aura says a lot about you, Sherlock, but not just about the man you are, it is also an indication of your physical and mental well being, and yours is telling me a great deal."

"Poppycock!"

"Your aura is flawed, Sherlock, and it is getting worse. Not only does it fluctuate, indicating that your energy levels are ebbing and flowing, but there is a darkening around the edges, and that is not a good sign."

"Miss Ingram, I won't ask you again," Holmes was beginning to see red and he was finding it harder and harder to sit there and listen to this twaddle. "Please, just spit it out and then be gone!"

"What?"

"Whatever it is you think that you know that is miraculously going to make me a believer."

"I know your secret."

"Oh, is that all!" Holmes scoffed. "I have many of those. Watson thinks I'm anal because I do not share my private thoughts easily..."

"And of course, he would be right," she countered, and he glowered at her.

"Which one?" Holmes demanded, moving forward to the edge of his seat, a sneer twisting his lips. "Which of my dirty little secrets is it, Miss Ingram? Could it be that despite all outward appearances, I'm not really a man after all, but a woman ..."

"I don't think _that's _a rolled up sock in your trousers, Sherlock," she countered dryly, without embarrassment, her eyes flicking downward for just a second to where the material of his trousers was bunched up around his crotch, before returning to his face, her gaze steady and unwavering.

"No, then perhaps it's that I'm really a bigamist with three wives scattered around the provinces and six hungry children ..."

He ignored her jibe as he continued in mocking tones, but Cassia Ingram remained unfazed, her eyes never wavering from his face.

"Is that really the best you can do, Sherlock?"

"Give me a minute or two, and I'm sure I'll think of something more scandalous. You did rather drop it on me out of the blue. You, on the other hand, Miss Ingram ..."

"Cass, please, after all, we are going to be seeing an awful lot of each other from now on ..."

"I think not, Miss Ingram. As I was saying, you, on the other hand have had three days to come up with something, so, I say again, spit it out!"

"Very well."

Cassia Ingram inched a little closer to the edge of her seat narrowing the distance between them, and then she was reaching out with her right hand, and Holmes quickly realized that she was going to touch him again.

He remembered his reaction the last time, and did not want a repeat performance.

His body had reacted as though a jolt of electricity had shot through him when she had cradled his head between her hands and leaned in to whisper into his ear.

"May I?"

"_No! You certainly may not_!"

"Alright, keep your shirt on, Sherlock. I wasn't going to hurt you."

"Miss Ingram, this is becoming more than tiresome. I have given you ample opportunity to say your piece," he made a great show of inching back from her. "Get to the point or get out."

"Very well, Mr Holmes."

_What happened to her calling him Sherlock all of a sudden?_

He had quite liked the way she said it in that low, contralto voice.

_Now where did that come from?_

"I know that you have been feeling unwell ..."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

She had the floor now, and she meant to have her say.

"And it has nothing to do with the weather. Indeed, you have been off colour for some time, but you being you, Mr Holmes, bullet proof and unbreakable, you ignored it, passed it off as some passing virus or your body reacting to your forced inactivity. You told yourself it was just some passing general malaise, and then buried yourself in banality, trying to keep yourself busy. But, it didn't get any better, did it, and now you can't ignore it any longer."

_Dear God, had she been following him, as well as camping out on the other side of Baker Street?_

"I know you couldn't bear it any longer and finally consulted a doctor."

Crickey, she _had_ been stalking him, and he _hadn't _spotted her.

Holmes didn't know which was more disconcerting, the fact that she had been able to do so without his being aware, or the fact that the very senses he relied on most of all might have failed him.

"Have you been stalking me, Miss Ingram?"

Sherlock wanted to trample her down, tell her that it was ridiculous, that she was just guessing after finding him in a compromising position in the bathroom doorway, but the tone of her voice, her whole demeanour, and especially the softness of her eyes told him that she was not merely guessing.

She absolutely believed in what she was saying, and she felt sorry for him.

"No, Mr Holmes, I just know, that's all. I know it as surely as I know that the sun will rise in the morning," she told him gently. "I know that you are in pain. Here," she raised her right hand to her head.

"I know that you have experienced balance and co-ordination issues, blurred vision, nausea and you're sleep has been disturbed by the pain. The headache is getting worse. You tried pain killers, but the across the counter variety didn't touch it, indeed, you even tried getting drunk to numb the pain, but that didn't work either. It never goes away, does it, Mr Holmes, it's the centre of your universe, a persistent, nagging ache, and sometimes, all you want to do is bang your head against the wall."

"And then you blacked out. Oh, I don't mean just today. It's happened before, hasn't it?"

Homes neither denied nor agreed with her.

He couldn't speak he was momentarily stunned.

"And, I know you're scared."

"Poppycock," the words were out before he realized, but the fight had gone out of his voice.

_Was it possible?_

_Was it really possible?_

"Naturally, because you are who you are, you think you know what it is, and you did a bit of snooping on the net, but in the end, you realized that you needed professional help. You're still waiting for results from tests. Don't worry, Mr Holmes it won't be much longer. You'll have a call by the end of the day."

"You think you have a brain tumour, and you are right, Sherlock," she inched forward in her seat again and this time she gently reached out and laid her hand on top of his.

Holmes did not react.

He was still too stunned.

"It's alright, Sherlock," Cassia Ingram reassured softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, but, suddenly regaining his wits, Holmes wasn't having any of it, and quickly snatched his hand out of her grasp now.

"So that's your game! You think you can make me a believer by telling me I'm going to die and will soon see for myself that there is something more than this mortal coil!" Holmes roared. "How low are you prepared to go, Miss Ingram? Get the hell out of my flat!"

"Oh, please, don't be a wally all your life, Sherlock, take a day off," Cassia Ingram sighed deeply in resignation. "You're not going to die, at least not any day soon," she told him softly but there was steel in her voice and absolute conviction in her green eyes.

"You're still on the side of the angels, but you won't be joining them for quite some time. I have it on good authority that you are going to live to a ripe old age. Yes, you have a brain tumour, but it's small, benign and, at the moment, operable," she told him matter of factly. "If you do something about it now, you will have no long lasting impediment to your speech, hearing or cognitive abilities, in short, _nitwit,_ you'll be exactly the same man you are now, only perhaps a little more humbled and appreciative of the time you've been given. But if you bury your head in the sand and ignore sound advice ..."

Her voice trailed away as she recognized the pure, unadulterated hatred for her burning in his eyes now.

_I'm sorry._

_I tried ..._

_I really tried ..._

_You need to give me something. Now!_

"I told you, you have more time than you think. This too shall pass, Cherie ..."

"_What _did you say?" Holmes demanded cutting her off.

"This too shall pass."

"Why? Why do you say that?"

"You know why."

He gave her another pointed look, demanding an explanation from her.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Honestly. I just pass the message on, but I do know that it has to be something specific to you, a message that you will understand, because she keeps saying it, over and over."

"She?"

"Yes, someone who loved you very much, Sherlock, someone who understood you better than anyone, and someone who still watches over you. She doesn't always approve of the things you do, and the way you treat people, but she still loves you, and she says to tell you she had a really good laugh, 'cherchez le chien' indeed! You're still fluent, but your accent hasn't improved any."

The colour drained from Holmes face and he could only sit and stare at Cassia Ingram, slack jawed and incredulous.

"She's your grandmother. She has a very attractive accent, but I have to keep reminding her to speak in English because when she gets excited, she goes off into French and I only have the very basic school girl stuff I'm afraid."

Cassia Ingram carried on, ignoring Holmes stunned silence.

"She is taking great delight in telling me that they are not ready for you over there just yet, they're enjoying the peace and quiet ..."

"I would like you to leave now, Miss Ingram," Holmes, jaw clenched, spoke through his teeth, in a low, cold voice.

"People like you are despicable and you do not impress me. I have no idea whom you spoke to, or how much you paid them, but rest assured, Miss Ingram, I will make it my life's work to find out, and then I will make sure that the world knows the truth about you."

_Damnation, what more would it take!_

"Your obstinacy will be the death of you, Sherlock. Quite literally."

"I won't ask again. I just have to make one phone call and the police will be here in less than five minutes to forcibly remove you," Holmes cautioned in a cold, empty voice.

"You won't make that call, Sherlock. You know I'm right, but, I understand that for a man like you, it must be hard to accept. I know you want some time to yourself to try to work out what skulduggery brings me to know these things about you, but the children don't have the luxury of time, and frankly, I can't take much more of this."

"My regrets, Miss Ingram, I don't have any silver with which to cross your palm, and I would advise you to leave. _Now!_ Before my patience completely deserts me and I forget that I am a gentleman."

_Couldn't he see for himself what this was doing to her physically?_

Cassia Ingram shook her head sadly.

"Look at me, Sherlock? Can't you see what this is doing to me? I'm a wreck. The dreams are more vivid than ever and I can't get the images out of my mind, even when I'm awake! Have some pity, please!" she implored in a low, throaty voice, but his expression did not change, and she knew that she had lost him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. The last thing I want is to hurt you or embarrass you. I thought you would be relieved to know that your problem isn't as serious as you think, but, I see that you are not prepared to take my word for it. You'll know better soon enough."

She rose from her seat with dignity and began to walk away from him, then thought better of it, turning back to face him once more.

"This isn't about you, or me, Sherlock. We don't need to like each other to work together, but we do have to build trust. I thought that was what I was doing, earning your trust. I don't get to choose the messages I get, or whom I have to deliver them to, hell, most of the time I don't even know what they mean, because they're not meant for _me_. I'm just the delivery woman."

"I still need your help. I have other messages, more information for you, but you need time to digest what I just told you, and accept its validity, and you are obviously still not ready to hear the rest of what I have to say. Too bad. I'm not going to give up. _I can't_. _They _won't let me, and if this goes on much longer, Sherlock, I'm going to go out of my mind," she told him with obvious sorrow.

Holmes remained unmoved.

"You know, you really should tell John. You're not going to be able to hide it from him for much longer, and yes, he'll be angry that you felt that you had no choice but to keep it from him, but, he is your friend, he cares, he will understand. You're going to need him. Mycroft, too. Time to put old rivalries to one side Sherlock, it won't be easy, but your grandmother is right. This too shall pass ..."

She turned and began to walk away, not looking back this time, but she did still have one more important thing to say to him.

"And your grandmother says you might find your scarf more palatable with a little salt, Cherie."


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter Twelve.**_

Sherlock Holmes was still sitting in stupified silence when Mrs Hudson finally appeared with his copy of the London Evening Standard, barely registering anything that she said as she gushed about her good fortune and insisted on planting a wet kiss on his cool cheek to celebrate her win.

She prattled on as she busied herself around the living room, tidying up flutters and picking up papers that had fallen off his desk, explaining as she did so, that she hadn't set out with the intention of buying a scratch card, but after his dig, she'd got the hump and thought: "Oh sod it, it's my money!" and had gone ahead and done it in defiance, so she really had him to thank for her windfall.

Holmes did not have the energy to argue, or remind her that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself, when she insisted on making him tea and toast before she would leave him in peace.

He was happy for her. Truly, he was, but he had other things on his mind right now and he knew that he was best left alone to deal with everything that the evening had thrown at him.

The toast was still sitting on the plate, on the table where Mrs Hudson had left it for him, the bread softened to a rubbery consistency and the butter congealed.

The tea was stone cold.

After Cassia Ingram had taken her leave, barely ten minutes after, actually, Holmes had taken a phone call from Sir Frederick Penrose Gill, who explained that he didn't usually consult over the telephone but the test results were in and he had thought it prudent to let Holmes know the diagnosis straight away.

There was, he had said, bad news and good.

Yes, Holmes did have a brain tumour, but the Neurologist, Witty, was adamant that from its position and size, it was operable and that once removed, there would be no permanent impediments.

Penrose Gill had informed Holmes that he had cleared his calendar so that he could see him the next morning at his consulting room in Harley Street, so that they could discuss the diagnosis more thoroughly and make arrangements for treatment and post surgery care.

Penrose Gill had signed off with a confident and cheery: "We'll get you sorted in no time, Mr Holmes, and you'll be good as new. As right as nine pence, old man ..."

_All shipshape and Bristol fashion ..._

_Ah, Miss Ingram, the double whammy._

_How did you know?_

There was no logical way to explain away the fact that she had been right on the money, that both her revelations this evening had come to pass.

Mrs Hudson's 'big win' on the scratch cards and the phone call from Penrose Gill confirming her diagnosis and prognosis of his present medical condition.

She had well and truly nailed it.

And although he was loathed to admit it, even to himself, she had been right about so many other things too.

She had him weighed up, no doubt about it.

When Sherlock Holmes finally came to his senses, he found himself sitting in the dark, tears streaming unashamedly down his face.

It had nothing to do with self pity.

Not this time, at least.

He had begun by thinking about his predicament.

Of course, he was relieved.

By all accounts he would survive, and survive with all his faculties intact.

Relief simply was not a strong enough word to cover it.

It had been his biggest fear, that whilst they might be able to remove the offending growth from his brain, he would no longer be able to function as he had before, that his intellect and intuition might be affected.

More than that, he might have been left with no speech and limited mobility, his mind as active and vibrant as ever but his body merely a shell, and for a dynamic man like Holmes, the thought was unbearable.

Under those circumstances, he would rather be dead.

He could not be more than the sum of his parts, but he refused to be anything less.

Cassia Ingram had been right about that too.

She had also been right when she had hinted that he had been feeling sorry for himself.

She was extraordinarily astute.

For a woman.

After coming to terms with the news that he was not facing his imminent demise, his thoughts had turned to his childhood, and the brief periods when he had been at his most happy and content, and the summer months he had spent across the Channel with his 'Grand-mere.'

His grandfather had been stationed in France during the Second World War, billeted in a small village in the country, where he had met a fairly well to do family, the Vernet's, who had a son, who was a struggling artist, and a daughter who was both beguiling and intelligent, and had quickly won his grandfather's heart.

They had married and produced a daughter, his mother, Lydia Mycroft Holmes, whom in turn had married Gregory C. Holmes.

His parents.

Lydia had insisted that her boys be raised as proper English gentlemen, but she had also understood the value of exposing them to other cultures and had therefore packed them off to enjoy the benefits of the French countryside with Grand-mere at every opportunity.

As a boy, running wild in the woodlands and pasturelands that surrounded his grandparent's home, Sherlock had learned much about nature, about biology, entomology and horticulture from watching his Grand-mere tend to her pretty little garden, learning the names of flowers and herbs and insects.

His Grand-mere had encouraged his interest in the sciences.

She had bought him his first chemistry set and helped him to set it up, and while he had learned the periodic table and learned to identify different chemicals and minerals, he had listened to her talk about the war and how she had met his grandfather, and he had learned to speak French fluently, if not with the perfect accent. The wretched English plum in his mouth saw to that.

As he had gotten older, and more frustrated, when he became bored more easily and turned to expressing his boredom and his frustration in more volatile ways, it was Grand-mere who had encouraged him to learn to play a musical instrument.

Listening to music had always soothed him, but playing an instrument, she had suggested would also give him something physical to do when his mind was not being stretched, and composing would be a creative outlet that would be less destructive.

And so he had learned to play the violin, mainly because he could move around whilst playing it.

He'd never been good at just sitting still, too much pent up nervous energy.

Grand-mere had understood that along with the massive intellect and curiosity about everything, there could be a darker, more self destructive side to the young Sherlock.

She also understood the rivalry between the brothers.

They were always competing, trying to see who could out do the other, who was better than whom.

Always competing for their parents' love and attention.

As a small child, whenever Mycroft had been particularly cruel, or dropped him in it after some piece of ill timed mischief, and he had incurred their parents wrath, and suffered the necessary punishment, or if he had been ill, or scared or just plain mad with the world, Grand-mere would seek him out, gather him to her ample bosom and comfort him with soothing words of love and reassurance, and when he had grown too old for such demonstrations of affection, she had used words to comfort and guide him.

"Cela passera aussi."

That had been one of her favourite reassurances.

"This too shall pass, Cherie."

She had always been right.

No matter how awful things seemed, when Grand-mere said it would pass, reassured that he would get through it, would survive whatever it was, she had always been right.

Holmes hadn't realized just how much he missed her.

She had died when he was sixteen, on the verge of manhood, and probably just when he needed her stability and reassurance, her comfort, affection and words of wisdom more than ever.

He'd never bought into the nonsense about the spirits of one's dead relatives coming back from beyond the grave to watch over one, but after Cassia Ingram's last visit, he was having to revise his opinion.

_Was it possible?_

_Was she the real deal after all?_

How else could he explain how she knew what she did about him?

He had implied bribery, but he was realistic enough to know that that was not possible.

She had said skulduggery.

Now, Holmes doubted that too.

_When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad, must be the truth._

_Hoisted on his own petard!_

No-one knew about Grand-mere and her sage words of reassurance, not even Mycroft, for Sherlock had kept his close relationship with her to himself, protective of the one person who seemed to want to get to know him better, the one person who had offered him unconditional love, and it had been a more than satisfactory arrangement for Sherlock, because he knew that she did not have the same relationship with Mycroft.

And of course, no-one knew about his current medical condition and his fears about the repercussions it might leave him with.

So, there was a very real possibility that Cassia Ingram was indeed the real deal.

And, that being the case, he no longer had any excuse not to accept her case and take her on as a client.

And it looked as if he was going to have to eat his scarf.

_Someone please pass the salt._


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter Thirteen.**_

John Watson alighted from the back of a black London cab outside 221B Baker Street and used his front door key to let himself in, fleetingly wondering if he should offer to give it back to Holmes now that he no longer lived here.

"It's only me!" He called out as he climbed the stairs.

He was expected, but he didn't want to take the chance that Holmes might go into his damn Ninja mode and pounce on him, suspecting an intruder.

He remembered all too well what happened to 'burglars' who attempted to breach 221B.

He had been summoned.

A text at midnight the night before had invited him to join Holmes for breakfast at 8.30am and Watson had immediately thought about Cassia Ingram and her meeting with his friend.

He could not wait to find out what had transpired between the two of them.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen as he entered the living room, but Mrs Hudson was busy in the kitchen, watching a saucepan with eggs boiling away merrily and waiting for the toaster to disgorge its contents.

"He's still getting dressed," she told Watson as the toaster popped up. "He looks like hell," she added for good measure. "Been up all night, pacing up and down, wearing my carpet threadbare," she sighed deeply. "Keeping me awake! I've never seen him like this before."

"I'll talk to him," Watson assured, realizing that it was high time he got to the bottom of just what was ailing Holmes, real or imagined.

"Someone needs to. Someone needs to give him a bloody good shake, if you ask me!"

Watson went back into the living room and picked up one of the morning papers from the pile on the couch.

_The Independent._

He then went to the table.

It was set for two; however, this morning there was something different about the place settings.

His own place setting looked normal, as it should be. Knife, fork, butter knife, cup and saucer with a teaspoon resting in the saucer, all perfectly proper, but in Holmes usual place, there was already a dinner plate, sitting on the place mat, between a knife and fork, and on the plate was Holmes scarf.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called out, wondering if the old woman had finally gone loopy.

She came to the doorway and he waved vaguely at Holmes place setting.

"Don't look at me, dear. He laid the table before I got here. I think he's lost the plot."

Light suddenly dawned as Watson recalled the conversation he had had with Holmes a few days before, and his declaration that if Cassia Ingram proved to him that she was indeed a genuine clairvoyant, he would eat his scarf.

A broad smile curved on Watson's lips.

_Good for you, Cass!_

_'Nuff said._

They had a new client and a case.

That was why he had been summoned.

Holmes no doubt wanted to share the details with him and was eager to get started.

When Holmes finally emerged from his bedroom, fully suited and booted, well groomed but looking anything but bright eyed and bushy tailed, Watson did not comment on the scarf on Holmes plate, as he took up his seat at the table and waited for Mrs Hudson to bring him some tea.

He'd well and truly got the message and there was nothing more to be said.

Watson noted that Mrs Hudson was right.

Holmes looked like hell.

Dark circles under his eyes, which were now even more sunken in his pallid face and he was unusually quiet and withdrawn as he sipped his tea.

He also looked as though he were miles away, functioning on auto pilot.

Holmes finally removed the scarf from his plate when Mrs Hudson brought his food to the table. A bowl of cornflakes and some fresh toast, the eggs, it turned out, had been for Watson.

"Mrs Hudson was telling me about her windfall," Watson filled the silence, chewing toast and sipping tea whilst at the same time carefully scrutinizing Holmes.

His friend hadn't touched his food, just sipped his tea, and although he had his nose in the newspaper, he hadn't turned the page in five minutes.

Nothing in any newspaper could hold his attention for _that_ long.

Something was distracting him.

Perhaps it was time to jolt him out of his daydream.

"She also told me that you fainted," Watson added in concerned, doctoral tones, as he scooped the last piece white from his first egg out of it's shell and popped it into his mouth, and this time, Holmes lowered the paper and regarded Watson with a look of pained resignation.

"It was an accident." Holmes emphasised with a glower. "Surely I don't have to remind you, of all people, about the statistics on accidents that happen in the home? I slipped on some water on the bathroom floor and it just knocked the wind out of me."

_End of story._

"Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?"

This simple question elicited a rather shocked expression from Holmes, which in its self surprised Watson.

"I mean, Mrs Hudson thinks your mood swings are down to PMT, but, you were queasy all day yesterday, then you fainted ..."

"Slipped," Holmes corrected tightly, wondering where Watson was going with this. _"I slipped!"_ He hissed through clenched teeth.

"Look, Sherlock, we're friends, right? There's nothing that we can't say to each other, tell each other ..."

_Oh God, did Watson know?_

_Had Cassia Ingram gone behind his back and revealed his secret?_

_Oh shoot ..._

Watson's tone was low and grave now, and he was actually reaching out across the table towards Holmes' pale, bony hand.

"And I am a doctor after all. Nothing you could say would ever shock me. It all adds up ..."

"John ..." Holmes gulped, both mortified and furious.

He had wanted to be the one to tell his friend Watson, in his own time and in his own way.

_How dare Cassia Ingram take matters into her own hands!_

His thoughts were raging out of control now, so he wasn't really listening to Watson anymore, until one word suddenly penetrated the fog swirling around his brain.

"_What?"_

"Sherlock, I said, you would tell me if you were pregnant, wouldn't you?"

The panicked expression on Holmes face dissolved into one of utter incredulity and his mouth dropped open, until he caught himself and closed it quickly.

"Should I nip out to Boots the Chemist and get a pregnancy testing kit?" Watson could not stiffle a guffaw. "You should see your face right now!"

"Watson!"

Holmes took a deep breath, relief flooding through him.

Any other time he might have appreciated his friend's ribald humour, but today was _not_ that day.

However, Watson did not know what his friend was about to face, so, he could be forgiven his little joke.

"I think you have been spending a little too much time with Mrs Hudson," Holmes spoke at last, his tone even and calm as he drew in a long, calming breath.

"Well, you have been acting a like a big girl lately."

Holmes let the comment slip.

Instead, he glanced at his watch, and then set aside his newspaper and pushed back his chair from the table.

"I have an appointment."

"A case?"

"No. A personal appointment."

"A follow up at the dentist?"

"No."

"Oh. Ok."

Watson frowned deeply.

"Hang on, Sherlock, you asked me to come over, remember. Please tell me you didn't just want company for breakfast, which, by the way, I notice you haven't touched."

"No, John."

There was something odd in Holmes' tone and his expression as he rose from his chair and walked across the room to gather his jacket, wallet and keys from their usual resting places.

"Sherlock?"

_Don't make me ask, John. Please. Don't make me ask._

Holmes intended to reveal all to Watson, but not here, not with Mrs Hudson still lurking in the kitchen, ears flapping no doubt.

He intended to tell her too, of course, but he wanted to sit her down and explain it to her, face to her face, so she didn't get the wrong end of the stick.

The last thing that he wanted was for her to overhear by accident and think that he hadn't wanted her to know.

"Oh, you want me to come with you?"

"I would appreciate the company."

"And we're going where?"

"I will explain on the way," Holmes intoned succinctly and turned away from Watson to shrug on his jacket.

Watson was still frowning, deeply puzzled by Holmes whole demeanour.

He was very serious, withdrawn and somewhat distracted this morning, and not in the way a case usually distracted him.

_Where was the usual nervous energy?_

_Where was the usual arrogance? Disdain?_

Holmes seemed unusually restrained and guarded.

However, he did not have time to ask Holmes for any details as his friend was already heading out of the door and down the stairs.

"Hurry up if you're coming, Watson. I don't want to be late."

Mrs Hudson appeared at his side, wanting to clear the table of the debris from their meal, starting with Holmes untouched dish of soggy cornflakes, and Watson looked at her curiously as he rose from the table.

"Don't look at me, dear. I told you, I think he's lost the plot!"

However she could not hide her concern from him. Her only consolation, that Sherlock's friend would be with him and would keep a watchful eye on him while he was out.

Whatever was going on, Holmes had chosen not to face it alone, and to John Watson that spoke volumes, and the fact that he had chosen Watson to go with him only helped to reinforce the fact that their friendship was back on track, and Watson could not have been more pleased about that.

"The cab's waiting. Are you coming? I _will_ go without you!" Holmes voice boomed from the bottom or the stairs.

"Alright, Sherlock, keep your hair on! I'm coming!"


	14. Chapter 14

**_Chapter Fourteen._**

"Look Sherlock, I'm sorry about that, back there," John Watson spoke with genuine regret in his voice and a sincere look of genuine embarrassment on his face as he settled in to the back of the cab besides Holmes.

"I was just trying to get your attention," he explained when Holmes did not offer any acceptance of his apology. "You were miles away."

"It's forgotten John," Holmes intoned, turning his head to face Watson. "Although I note that you forgot to ask who the father might be."

Holmes forced a weak smile to his lips.

He had never been very good at humour.

Sarcasm, yes.

Flippancy, yes.

Humour, no.

However, since making acquaintance with John Watson he had tried to make something of an effort to understand his friend's constant need to use humour to deal with awkward situations, and to try to emulate him, but he knew that he was lousy at it.

"And I dare say I can't expect you to step in and do the right thing, can I? What would Mary make of that?"

"Sherlock," Watson ignored the attempt at humour, remaining serious, somehow sensing that his friend was in a very difficult spot at the moment and didn't quite know how to share. "You know that I will always stand by you. You might be a bit of a tit at times, but you're still my friend."

"I know."

"So, what's wrong? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No."

"Right then ..."

"At least, not with the law."

"Blimey, I was only joking, you know, Sherlock ..."

Watson stared open mouthed at his friend and Holmes frowned back at him.

"About being pregnant," Watson clarified. "You didn't get some girl into trouble, did you?"

"_Me?"_ Holmes drawled sarcastically. "_The virgin?_" he added with a snort of derision.

"Sorry. Yes. I forgot who I was talking to for a minute. Mr I don't have a sex drive ..."

"Exactly."

"So, where are we going?"

Holmes began to withdraw, carefully moving away from Watson, pretending to focus his attention out of the window on his side of the cab as he drew in a deep breath and then expelled it on a shoulder raising sigh.

"Sherlock?"

"Harley Street," Holmes spoke, but he refused to look at Watson as he did so.

The last thing he needed right now was to see sympathy in his friend's eyes.

He was only just holding it together as it was, and that would be his undoing.

_Emotions!_

_Damn!_

_Why did he have to find out that he had damned emotions after all this time?_

_Why now?_

This was hard enough to deal with as it was.

_Where was his cold, clinical detachment when he really needed it?_

"John" he continued before his friend could ask the obvious question. "There is no easy way to do this, so, I would prefer it if you would just let me speak and not interrupt. All will become clear in the fullness of time ..."

"Sherlock, you're really starting to put the wind up me ..."

"John, please!"

Holmes turned to face him now, and it was clear to see that he was uncomfortable and struggling to find the right words.

Watson nodded silently, somehow sensing the seriousness of the moment for Holmes.

Holmes took another deep breath, grateful for a moment to organize his thoughts.

Holmes had known that it was never going to be easy to break the news, but Watson was such a compassionate and caring man, and such a loyal and devoted friend, he was bound to react strongly.

He was also a fine doctor, who would instantly understand the condition, and its implications.

_Best to just spit it out then. _

_No point sugar coating the pill._

"I have a brain tumour."

"What? _Jesus, Sherlock!_ You don't just drop something like that on a bloke, in the back of a ruddy cab!"

Watson's eyes grew wide in his suddenly pale face and he looked like he had been hit with a sledge hammer or a bolt of lightning.

_"_Did you say _brain tumour_?"

Holmes nodded almost imperceptibly_. _

_"Bloody hell ..."_

His voice was weaker now and he swallowed hard as the true meaning behind Holmes words suddenly hit home.

"How long have you known?"

"John, please," Holmes implored softly. "Don't make this any harder on both of us. Let me talk. I promise you will have answers to your questions soon enough."

However, John Watson was not listening.

Gone was the shock at the revelation, only to be replaced by a much stronger, more primal emotion.

He was starting to see red.

Holmes was doing it again, damn him, shutting him out, scheming behind his back, hiding things from him.

_Mr Independent!_

_The iceman cometh!_

_What the hell had happened to trust?_

"Christ, Sherlock, why the hell didn't you _say_ something!"

"Watson!" Holmes hissed through clenched teeth, turning his head to glower at his friend.

"It's just like _you,_ isn't it!"

"Watson, you know how I am," Holmes tried to reason calmly, for once able to understand his friend's genuine hurt and anger. "I don't find it easy to share my troubles. I'm just not used to doing that. I have always been on my own, only ever had myself to rely on and I have always had to deal with these kinds of things alone."

"Well you're not on your own any more, clot."

"I know."

"You bloody control freak! Always have to have everything your own way! And I really hate it when you do that, when you shut me out."

"I know that too, John."

The softness in Holmes voice, and the fact that he was continuing to regard Watson with big, sorrowful eyes, the fear and uncertainty in his face plain for his friend to see, suddenly halted the medical man in his tracks.

He shouldn't be angry with Holmes.

He should be thinking of ways to help him, to reassure him.

"I do _know_ all that, John, but it doesn't make it any easier for me. I am trying."

"Oh yes, you certainly are, you pillock," Watson muttered darkly by way of disguising his own fears for his friend's future.

_A brain tumour._

_Oh God ..._

_Why now?_

_Just when he was getting used to the idea that Holmes was actually still alive!_

_Just when everything seemed to be getting back on track ..._

"You'd try the patience of a ruddy saint."

"So I've been told. On numerous occasions. May I continue?"

"Yes."

"Thank you. We are off to Harley Street to see the old family quack, Sir Frederick Penrose Gill."

_And naturally, because it was Holmes, the old man would have a title._

"Never heard of him."

"I did not suppose for one moment that you would have."

"Not on the NHS then."

There was sarcasm in Watson's voice now.

"He practically delivered me, Watson, or as near as. He knows me well enough, and I trust him."

There was a hint of the usual impatience and disdain in Holmes voice now, as though he resented having to explain.

"Anyway, I came to see him last week, after I noticed a distinct tremor in my right hand," Holmes continued, returning to his usual matter of fact tone and focusing his eyes directly ahead of him, wanting to concentrate on explaining the facts, not the emotion in Watson's eyes and voice.

If this was what it was like to have friends, this tight knot of emotion clenching in his chest and deep in the pit of his stomach, Holmes wished he could go back to the days when he did not have any, could not feel anything.

_How much easier would this have been back then?_

_Before he had died._

Nothing had been the same since his resurrection, including his relationships with those around him.

He had seen all too clearly how they felt about him.

Especially Watson, standing there at his graveside, so obviously distraught, alone and adrift.

Something else Cassia Ingram had been right about.

Now he knew how much they cared, how hurt they had been by his death, and how easy it was for them to be used against him.

The genie was out of the bottle and he couldn't go back.

His very life suddenly had a new impact.

His actions affected those close to him and could put them in danger.

It made him feel guilty.

Guilty, that they could be used in such a way, and that that could make him weak.

Guilty that he was incapable of feeling the same way about them.

_Or was he?_

He certainly had a strong desire to protect them, to keep them safe and out of harm's way.

_Wasn't that caring of a kind?_

Meanwhile, Watson waited for Holmes to continue, understanding his friend's attitude, suspecting that it was the only way that he was going to get through the next few minutes and decided to remain silent and let him get on with it.

"There have been other symptoms. A persistent headache, nausea, disrupted sleep, some episodes of minor clumsiness, and a blackout, but that day, I cut myself shaving because my vision had become blurred, momentarily, and that was also when I noticed the tremor."

Watson remembered that morning, and how he had teased Holmes about having an argument with his razor.

_So much for the dental appointment!_

"Penrose Gill sent me for tests, to the top Neurology man he knows, Sir Roger Witty, FRCS. They have both been very thorough, John. And the verdict came down last night."

_How typical of Holmes to make it sound like a ruddy legal judgement._

_Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty and I sentence you to death ..._

"Sir Frederick telephoned to give me the news. Thought he'd better put me out of my misery."

"And you went through all of that on your own, without saying a ruddy word. You prat!"

Watson was incredulous.

He purposely made himself draw in a deep breath before continuing

"So, what did he say?"

"Apparently, it is small and it's operable, and there should be no _permanent_ damage."

"Thank God. You lucky bastard."

_Lucky?_

_Why couldn't it have been the transport, and not the brain?_

Holmes found himself thinking sourly.

"That remains to be seen. However, Penrose Gill wanted to see me this morning to discuss the diagnosis in more detail, and to propose a plan of action, surgery and post operative care, that sort of thing."

"Sounds like they have it covered."

"And I wanted you with me, John, because you are my friend. I value your opinion and I trust your medical knowledge. You will be able to translate the medical stuff that goes over my head and advise me if what they are proposing is right or not."

Finally Sherlock turned his head and looked at Watson once more.

"I am going to need your help, and your support, and I trust your judgement. I know that if things do not work out as they should, you will take the best course of action for me, knowing my wishes and how I feel about not having my faculties. Most of all, John, I am going to need your strength and your friendship."

Watson was touched.

Deeply moved actually.

For Holmes it was quite a speech.

And for once there was no sarcasm or haughtiness in his tone.

Holmes was being perfectly sincere.

"You already have that, Sherlock. You always did."

"And you have mine. Always. I can't help being the way I am, John. I don't handle things like this very well, and my instinct has always been to deal with my problems alone. They are my burden to carry, no-one else's."

"But you don't have to do that now, Sherlock."

"I know."

"Did you think I'd lose it if you told me straight?"

"No. I just didn't want to put you through that again. You have already had to watch me die once. I didn't want you to have to go through that again. I couldn't be that cruel. I needed to be sure first, so that I could give you the facts."

"You're _not_ going to die!" Watson declared fiercely.

"No. I'm not." Holmes spoke with more confidence now. "I am reliably informed that I will live to a ripe old age."

"Penrose Gill said that?"

There was a hint of surprise and disapproval in Watson's voice.

The prognosis was good, but there were still risks involved and it was irresponsible of him to give Holmes the impression that there was nothing to it and he would sail through it unscathed.

"No. Cassia Ingram."

"Oh."

"Hmmm."

"So, all this time you've been struggling with your mortality, keeping quiet, just to spare my feelings?"

"Something like that."

"You plonker! I can't believe you, Sherlock. How much harder do you think it would have been for me, if you've suddenly disappeared off the face of the earth, and then I found out by reading your obituary in The Times?"

Watson glared at his friend, who suddenly had the grace to look somewhat shamefaced.

"I've already done that too, remember?" Watson reminded. "_That_ would have been cruel, Sherlock. I would always have had some lingering,nagging doubt in the back of my mind that you might pop up again somewhere, some day in the future. I'd always be looking over my shoulder, waiting, hoping. _That_ would have been harder to bear than being with you, making the best of the time we are granted and then saying goodbye properly at the end."

Holmes suddenly looked genuinely moved by Watson's words, and swallowed involuntarily.

"Friends are there for each other, through the good times and the bad, Sherlock. Do you really think I am so emotionally fragile? Do you really think that I would let you die alone?"

"No."

"Good. I'm glad we got that sorted out. Now, let's hear no more talk of dying. We'll see what this Penrose Gill fella has to say, and then you can tell me about Cassia Ingram and what she said that finally made you accept that she is genuine."

"That's not important, John. The important thing is that she may have a case for us."

"Sod the ruddy case!" Watson erupted.

Holmes opened his mouth to protest, but did not get the chance as Watson cut him off.

"No, Sherlock, I mean it. Forget it. The most important thing is getting you through this and well again!"

"Are you asking me to ignore the possibility that there is a child killer out there on a rampage, just because I am off colour?"

"_Off colour!_ It's a freaking _brain tumour_! Do you have any idea of the risk you could be taking if you don't get it treated straight away!"

"I am aware of _all_ the facts, John. It does not alter the situation."

"No. No, Sherlock. We don't know that there is a killer out there. We _don't_. We _do _know that you need surgery, and that has to be our priority right now. I'm sure Cassia Ingram will understand."

"But will the children?"

"_Sherlock!_ You just told me that you trusted my medical judgement and that I would have your best interests at heart!" Watson railed, but he could see from Holmes expression that it was a complete waste of breath. "You do _not _screw around with a sodding brain tumour, Sherlock, you just _don't_!"

_Even now there was no reasoning with the annoying little berk!_

"I will decide what _my_ priority is, once I've heard what Cassia Ingram has to say, and that is an end to it John."

And as if to underline the statement, the cab came to a halt at the curb and Holmes added: "We're here."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter Fifteen.**_

John Watson had never been inside medical consulting rooms like the one he found himself being shown into now.

Light, airy, freshly decorated in muted, soothing colours, fine art and pieces of marble statuary strategically placed in the hallway and waiting area.

It was perfectly designed to put the patient at their ease and make them feel welcome.

Unlike an NHS waiting room, which generally was painted in drab colours and gave the patient the impression that they should sit down, shut up and wait their turn, even if it was two hours of arse numbing boredom with very little in the way of satisfaction at the end of it.

There was plush, deep pile creamy beige carpet everywhere, and he just knew for a fact that it had never been exposed to any kind of bodily fluid, unlike most medical centres or hospitals he had ever been in before, and there was antique, comfortable furniture everywhere.

It reeked of money.

And air freshener and polish he noted, not puke and urine and disinfectant.

_Definitely not the NHS then._

_How the other half live!_

_Bloody hell..._

_Buckingham Palace all over again._

_Well, almost._

_I wonder if there are gold taps in the bathroom!_

_Had Holmes ever nicked an ashtray from here?_

Sherlock Holmes was welcomed at reception and quickly ushered into the main consulting room by a squat, rotund man with piercing eyes and a kindly smile, and then as he walked deeper into the office, and took up the preferred seat, Holmes introduced Watson.

"My good friend," Holmes waved toward him.

Not _my very good_ friend, Watson noted, but was relieved, for that would have implied a closer relationship between them, the kind he had been denying since the first day he had met Holmes.

_At least he hadn't said colleague!_

"John Watson, MD, Army man. Captain, formerly with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and recently retired after a stint in Afghanistan, where he was wounded."

"Pleased to meet you, my dear fellow!" Sir Frederick Penrose Gill was obviously impressed as he pumped Watson's hand vigorously and then directed him to the chair beside Holmes. "Please, take a seat."

"Thank you."

"Well now, Mr Holmes," Penrose Gill returned his attention to his patient as Watson made himself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other and casually glancing around the consulting room, noting the expensive furniture and medical paraphernalia that filled the large room, giving Holmes a pointed, questioning look.

"You may speak freely, Sir Frederick. John is aware of my predicament, and your diagnosis. I should, perhaps have warned you that he would be joining me, but there really wasn't time," Holmes explained, taking in the hungry, envious look on Watson's face as he no doubted coveted all the most up to date medical equipment that surrounded them.

"I asked John to accompany me because he will be responsible for my post operative care, once you and Sir Roger have had your fill of me," Holmes tried to make light.

"He will also be my guardian, advocate, whatever you want to call it, whilst I am non compos mentis. My voice. When the time is right I will make John aware of my wishes, and have no doubt, Sir Frederick, he will carry them out."

Holmes paused to take a breath and suddenly became aware of the look on Watson's face.

He was obviously touched by Holmes sudden, unexpected vocalisation of his wishes and the trust that he was placing in him, but this was tempered by the realization of their implications.

The fact that Holmes' life would literally be in his hands.

"He has my full trust, and you will treat him accordingly, please. He and he alone will speak for me, if things don't work out as you all expect. In fact, I intend to give him power of attorney over all my affairs, just for the duration of my incapacity of course, but I want it understood, once I have agreed to the surgery and have been admitted to the hospital, in matters pertaining to my health and my future, Dr John Watson will have the last word."

Watson was astounded.

"As you wish," Sir Frederick acquiesced without hesitation.

He could sympathise with Holmes the younger and his predicament, for if things did go badly, and his life hung in the balance, he clearly did not want any decisions about his future being made by his older brother, his life prolonged unnecessarily, or ended prematurely on the whim of a resentful, spiteful sibling.

"Well, then, shall we proceed?"

"Certainly."

With the wonders of modern technology at his disposal, right there at his fingertips no less, Penrose Gill was able to view Holmes recent CT scan on the large flat screen computer monitor taking up pride of place on his desk, and then he turned the monitor to position it so that both Watson and Holmes could also see the offending mass in Holmes' brain for themselves.

Holmes politely glanced at the black and white image on the screen, then allowed Watson and Penrose Gill to scrutinise the image, like a pair of art lovers swooning over an Old Master.

"The image is extremely clear," Penrose Gill intoned and Watson nodded in agreement, awed and envious at the same time.

If only he had access to something like this for his patients.

"However, apparently this is not precise enough for Sir Roger. He would like you to have a head MRI scan, Mr Holmes. He claims that it will give him a clearer idea where the little blighter is and how to get at it without doing too much collateral damage."

"John?" Holmes turned to Watson for his opinion.

"He's right, Sherlock. An MRI scan, in this kind of situation, can be used to map the brain very accurately."

"Indeed," Penrose Gill nodded, a smile curving at his lips in admiration that the former Army man should be so knowledgeable.

"Fine. I am, after all, in your hands, gentlemen," Holmes consented.

He really didn't want to hear all the gory details, but it was important to him that Watson had all the information available to him.

"And very capable hands they are too, if I might say? Sir Roger Witty is the best in his field, but he is also a straight shooter. I know you appreciate candour, Mr Holmes, so I will say this, Sir Roger will not build up your hopes. He will undoubtedly tell you all the risks that are involved, but he will also be supremely confident to the point of arrogance about his skill and ability to remove the tumour without any further ill effect upon you in the future."

"It is not egotism; it is self confidence and self belief, which comes from years of experience. If he did not believe that he could do this, if there was one doubt in his mind that you would be left incapacitated, then he would tell you so, and allow you to make the decision to proceed or not."

_I should damn well hope so too, after all it is my brain we are talking about, not a blocked drain!_ Holmes thought bitterly. _I really don't want some incompetant nincompoop digging around in there just for the fun of it!_

"He is not knife happy, Mr Holmes. He simply is the best, and he knows it."

"I will bear that in mind, Sir Frederick."

"So, Dr Watson, do you concur with the necessity to carry out an MRI scan?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I will make the arrangements for as soon as possible. Unfortunately, they only have the one Magnetic Resonance Scanner and appointments are at a premium, so it might be a couple of days before I hear anything."

_A couple of days! _

_My patients often have to wait weeks, sometimes even months!_

_Oh God, I hope I didn't say that out loud!_

"Now then, as to the actual surgical procedure, that is not my field of course. Witty will do the surgery, personally, and he will go through everything that you need to know when you are admitted for the surgery, which, he has already indicated to me he could slot you in at the end of next week. That will give him time to review the MRI and CT scans, select and brief his surgical team and the nursing staff and make the necessary arrangements for a theatre and ICU bed post surgery."

"So soon?"

"Is there a problem, Mr Holmes?"

"Sherlock ..." Watson glared at Holmes. "Button it!" He hissed, but his friend ignored the look and continued undeterred.

"Actually, we may need to be a little flexible about the timing, Sir Frederick. I am about to embark upon a case."

"Sherlock," Watson groaned, giving his friend a pained look, and Sir Frederick Penrose Gill looked somewhat flabbergasted himself.

"I know I came here seeking your help, and I do not want to appear ungrateful ..."

"Then don't be an idiot! Shut up and agree to the surgery, Sherlock!" Watson hissed vehemently.

"However, realistically, would a few days make that much difference?" Holmes asked in calm tones.

"A few days you say?"

"I cannot state categorically at this time, but, I anticipate that it will resolve its self in no more than a couple of weeks at most," Holmes stated confidently, although he felt anything but confident.

"It is important to me, Sir Frederick," Holmes declared emphatically. "After all, it might be the last case I ever get," he reminded solemnly.

Watson was astounded.

He hadn't looked at it like that.

"And I do so hate unfinished business," Holmes continued. "Someone is counting on me. I will not let them down because of my own problems."

"How long do you anticipate you will need, Mr Holmes?"

Sir Frederick didn't look happy, but realized that there was nothing that he could do.

The decision to have the surgery was Holmes' alone, and the decision when to go ahead with the procedure was also his.

After all, just over a week was precious little time to get his life and his affairs in order, should things go badly wrong.

"I am not sure yet. I will be able to give you a better idea after I have met with my client. We have an appointment scheduled for later today."

This was news to Watson, but he said nothing, regarding Holmes with narrow eyed suspicion.

This was Holmes show, for now, and there was no point arguing with him.

_Just you wait, Sherlock. _

_There will come a time when your arse is mine!_

Sir Frederick Penrose Gill emitted a long, deep sigh, but there was a look of admiration on his face, that his patient could be so selfless at a time like this.

Watson recognized the look.

He'd seen it often enough in the army, when some young whippersnapper had given his life on some misguided, gungho attempt to go out in a blaze of glory.

_Selfless my left foot!_

_He just wants one last chance to show off!_

"Tell me, how have you been? Have you become aware of any change in the severity of your symptoms? Any new symptoms? How are you managing the pain?"

If there had been a dramatic change for the worse in his patient's symptomology and the pain was worse, then he would have no qualms about categorically refusing to go along with Holmes request for a short delay.

"No change," Holmes lied, able to read the older man's thoughts etched into his face.

John Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation but remained tight lipped and silent.

_What would be the point anyway?_

_Why waste the breath?_

_Holmes would do his own thing and be damned!_

"The pain medication that Sir Roger prescribed is adequate."

"I can write a script for a top up to see you over."

Penrose Gill looked resigned now.

In his position, he had learned long ago that it was always best to go along with the whims of his very rich, influential and very spoiled clientele, or risk being black listed.

He hadn't got where he was by treading on the wrong toes, and he was not about to start now.

He had a reputation to uphold too, after all.

And, for what it was worth, in his opinion, there really didn't seem any harm in it.

The tumour wasn't going anywhere, and the predicted rate of growth was such that to leave it for a few more days would cause no more damage to major nerves and arteries or vital areas of the brain.

Holmes was lucky that he had decided to seek help relatively early in the progression of the disease.

They had a little room to maneouver.

"Very well. We can still go ahead and schedule the MRI," Penrose Gill acquiesced as he returned his attention to the computer screen, brought up the letter from Witty that his staff had scanned into their system and checked the medication and dosages that the Neuro surgeon had prescribed, satisfying himself that his patient did indeed have enough sleeping medication for the time being, then he began typing at his keyboard and a few seconds later a prescription form began to print.

"I don't suppose a few days will make all that much difference at this stage. Witty won't like it, naturally, but he'll just have to lump it, after all, you're the one paying the bill," he retrieved the printed document from the printer tray and scrawled his flamboyant signature on the prescription then handed it across the desk to Holmes.

"Not I," Holmes clarified, taking the prescription and folding it, placed it in his jacket pocket.

A look of understanding fashioned its self on Penrose Gill's face.

"Ah, the usual arrangement."

"The usual arrangement," Holmes concurred.

"Splendid, we seem to have that all sorted out then. I will be in touch with that MRI appointment as soon as I hear anything, and Mr Holmes, if you notice any change in your condition, come back and see me straight away. Straight away, mind."

Holmes nodded in silent assent.

"Dr Watson," Penrose Gill reached out across his desk, offering Watson his hand once more. "Good to meet you, Sir. I'm sure you know the pack drill. Try to keep him calm, make him rest as much as he can."

_Ask me to do something easy why don't you!_

_Now how am I supposed to do that, short of shooting him full sedatives!_

_I'm a doctor not a ruddy miracle worker, and this doctor obviously has a fool for a patient!_

Penrose Gill turned his attention to Holmes then.

"And you, Sir, you need to follow your doctor's orders. You must try to eat and rest, as much as you can, to keep up your strength, Mr Holmes, but if you find you still can't tolerate food, I suggest you try glucose tablets, or there are, of course, plenty of high energy drinks available on the market these days ..."

_Are you kidding me?_

Watson could well imagine Holmes tanked up on _Red Bull_ or _Relentless._

He was already hyperactive.

_Feeding him that stuff would turn him into the Ever Ready bunny, on speed!_

"And try to avoid coming into contact with anyone with any kind of virus or infection which might delay the surgery even further."

Holmes merely nodded silently and rose somewhat unsteadily from his seat, indicating that he considered the meeting concluded, and Sir Frederick Penrose Gill responded accordingly, rising from his seat to shake Holmes hand across the desk.

"Good day to you, gentlemen."

_Dismissed!_

_Sir, yes, sir!_

Watson thought sourly, resisting the urge to salute, and followed Holmes out of the office.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Chapter Sixteen._**

"Happy now?" Watson demanded angrily as they walked to the curb outside Penrose Gill's Harley Street Practice to hail a cab, Sherlock looking up and down the street but there was no sign of a taxi anywhere.

"Ecstatic. Are you?" Holmes sighed wearily and deflected the question back on to Watson.

"You twerp! You arrogant, selfish, self serving egotist! You couldn't stop yourself, could you? You played that old man like your rotten fiddle! You had to do it, didn't you? You had to bring up the case."

"It's not just the case, John," Holmes turned to face his friend, sorrow in his face now. "There's much to think about. Much to do. A little over a week isn't much time to get my affairs, and my life in order. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"That's a low blow, Sherlock."

"Besides, I told the truth in there. It matters to me not to let Cassia Ingram down. I want to finish this business, John; I _need_ to finish it, while I still have the chance. Afterwards, I may not be up to it. I may _never_ be up to it again," he paused, a shudder running down his spine now, which had nothing to do with the weather, which was still scorching hot and uncomfortably humid, and there was an odd catch in his deep, baritone voice.

Holmes' words hit Watson like a punch to the solar plexus.

Holmes knew exactly what he was up against, and his thinking was balanced and crystal clear.

Unlike his own, which was clouded with emotion.

What's more, Holmes really was scared, although he was trying not to show it.

He had been forced to face his own mortality, for real this time, and he didn't much care for what he saw.

Holmes had been up all night coming to terms with his future, and formulating what he wanted and how he was going to approach the problem.

Reviewing both the positives and the negatives, thoroughly, but not completely unemotionally.

Thus far, he had made two important decisions.

One, that he wanted John Watson at his side every step of the way from this point on, and two, that if Cassia Ingram _was_ the real McCoy and did have psychic powers, which it seemed she did, then her dreams could indeed give him vital information about a real crime and a real killer.

He at least owed it to her to hear her out.

That was why he had sent her a text early that morning, inviting her to Baker Street at 3pm this afternoon.

"I don't want to shuffle off leaving loose ends."

_No, you want to go out with a bang! _Watson thought bitterly.

"Dammit, you are not going to shuffle off!"

"I applaud your confidence, my friend, but, we have to be realistic and face the possibilities. There are always risks with any kind of surgery. I would be a fool not to have taken them into consideration. In an ideal world, everything will turn out fine, everything will go as you all anticipate and I will be as good as new in no time."

Holmes paused to take a breath.

"However, we both know that we don't live in an ideal world. In the real world, things go wrong; Witty might encounter some complication that he cannot foresee today, something beyond his control."

Watson knew that Holmes was right.

Of course he was, loathed though Watson was to admit it.

Watson heard about such horror stories every day from his colleagues in the medical profession.

They were not God.

Holmes had obviously given considerable thought to the more negative aspects of this and what he wanted if things went pear shaped.

Of course he had.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

He was nothing if not thorough.

"You heard what Penrose Gill said, John. It can't make all that much difference, after all, I'm not putting it off until next Christmas."

"No? What if you haven't solved the damn case by then?"

"That's four months away, John. I've _never_ taken _that _long!"

Holmes was genuinely hurt by Watson's lack of faith in him, but at that moment a cab came around the corner and he moved to the curb to flag it down.

Watson didn't like to tell him that he might be blind, deaf, paralysed and bedbound or even dead by then, if he didn't come to his senses and accept the inevitable.

There was no point.

Holmes knew all that, and he was still determined to have things his own way.

_Selfish git!_

"John, did you hear anything I said in there, about trusting you completely?" Holmes spoke softly, as Watson joined him and they waited for the vehicle to pull up at the curb, regarding his friend solemnly.

"I am keenly aware that there will come a time when I may no longer be able to function properly, so I am relying on you to see to it that it does not go that far. After all, I am no use to Miss Ingram if I cannot see or hear, or if I am in a coma," Holmes acknowledged solemnly.

"I will make a promise to you now, my friend, my _good friend_, John. The very first time that you feel that I am in any way seriously jeopardizing my life, I expect you to step in and take matters out of my hands, by whatever means you deem necessary."

"Can I punch you?" Watson scowled.

"If you feel it necessary."

"Can I have that in writing?"

Holmes emitted a deep sigh.

"Dammit, Sherlock, can't you see that you're doing it again, you maniac! Risking your life just so you can prove you are right!"

"No. Not this time. However, the point is moot anyway, John. Until I hear what Cassia Ingram has to say, I cannot say how long the case will last, or, indeed if there is even a case to pursue. Please, let's just agree to wait and see."

John Watson wasn't happy about it, not happy at all.

In fact, he was absolutely livid, but at the same time, he found that he suddenly understood where Holmes was coming from.

His successful cases were his legacy.

The only mark he could leave on the world.

Who was he to stop him?

Watson nodded silently, still overwhelmed by the trust that his friend was placing in him and genuinely touched by the deep affection and warmth that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes a moment before, telling himself that he had to put his anger and his fears to one side.

This was neither the time, nor the place.

Right now he needed to be the friend that Sherlock both wanted and needed him to be, supportive and concerned, but trying to keep things as normal as he could by doing what he always did when they were on a case.

Silently and thoughtfully, Watson clambered into the cab behind Holmes and regarded his friend with a new found admiration and understanding as they settled in for the journey home.

He really was quite an extraordinary human being, and a unique friend.


	17. Chapter 17

**_Chapter Seventeen._**

As it turned out, Holmes had other ideas than going straight back to Baker Street.

It was still early, and as he had said, there was much to do.

So, while he still had the bit between his teeth, Holmes directed the cab to the address of the offices of his solicitor and after a brief consultation with his secretary, he and Watson were shown into the inner sanctum of Shorecross, Dunn and Whitmore.

The man who greeted Holmes cordially was Stanley Shorecross Junior, although as far as age was concerned he appeared to be well into his sixties, thinning grey hair and creaking joints whenever he moved, and he made it clear that although he was pleased to see Holmes, he only had a few moments to spare.

A few moments was all it had taken for Holmes to map out what he wanted in the way of legal services from the older man, explaining his current situation and that due to the nature of the surgery and the possible incapacitation beyond it, he wished to make sure that Dr John Watson was the only one who could legally speak for him.

Therefore he wanted Shorecross to draw up a water tight document that would give Watson absolute and sole power of attorney over his financial affairs and all matters pertaining to any decisions to be made with regard to his health and well being during the period of his surgery and convalescence, and he needed it done quickly.

Shorecross had made no comment, not even to express concern that a friend, rather than his brother should be burdened with such responsibility, and after thirty minutes, they were back in a cab heading back to Baker Street.

Holmes was flagging noticeably now, wilting before Watson's eyes, barely able to keep his eyes open as he slumped against Watson in the back of the cab.

He had obviously been functioning on pure adrenalin, and now that he had faced the two difficult meetings, the levels of adrenalin in his body were dropping rapidly.

By the time they reached Baker Street, Holmes was practically out for the count and needed assistance to alight from the cab.

He struggled to walk the short distance to the front door while Watson paid the cabbie, feeling extremely fatigued, his legs like lead weights, pulling him down, the accumulation of sleepless nights, but especially the night before finally coming home to roost, as he trudged up the stairs to the flat, Watson behind him, hot on his heels, ready to steady him should he stumble.

Mrs Hudson was still lurking, they could hear her noisily cleaning the kitchen, obviously still anxious and needing to fill the time, and as Holmes walked into the living room, she emerged from the kitchen, pink rubber gloves on her hands, a cloth in one hand and a bottle of detergent in the other.

As Holmes shuffled wearily across the room, Mrs Hudson threw Watson an anxious, expectant glance.

Holmes forced himself to veer from his intended direction, his chair, and walked over to the elderly landlady. Standing in front of her he bent forward carefully and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her dry, wrinkled cheek.

"Forgive me for causing you to be worried, Mrs Hudson, and thank you, for everything," Holmes whispered, then pulled back, because he felt as though he were pitching forward and over balancing and was going to fall flat on his face, and did not want to push the old lady over with him, and then forced a weak smile to form on his lips.

"You silly boy!" Mrs Hudson squeaked, both flattered and flustered by this unusual show of affection from her errant tenant.

This was definitely out of character for Sherlock, and that disturbed her more than seeing him look so obviously ill.

She much preferred his other nonsense.

She knew how to handle that.

This was so out of the ordinary it made her feel uneasy.

"I'll make some tea then, shall I ...?" She blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

"Grand idea," Holmes smiled then turned and staggered back toward his chair.

"Oh no you don't," Watson was swiftly at Holmes side as his legs almost buckled beneath him. "I think you should go and have a lie down for a while."

"I'm not a baby, Watson," Holmes was beginning to slur his words now he was so utterly exhausted. "I don't need putting down for an afternoon nap," he grumbled, but the fight had definitely gone out of him now.

"It's not afternoon, dimwit, its still morning. Do as you're told," Watson lowered his voice as he reached an arm out to steady the wobbly Holmes. "You remember the conversation we just had, and the one we had the first time we went round to see Irene Adler?"

Holmes frowned.

"I'm hearing that sub text again, and I'd be delighted to punch you right now!" Watson warned. "Very necessary. Put you out cold for a couple of hours. Works for me."

"That _won't_ be necessary," Holmes hissed in a tight voice.

_What choice did he have?_

_And this was the man he had just appointed to have power of his life, and death._

He had no regrets.

Watson was right, and he did have his best interests at heart.

He always had.

Besides, he could barely stand on his own and he needed rest if he were to be on his game when Cassia Ingram came for her appointment later.

"I didn't get much sleep last night." Holmes conceeded.

"Really? I wonder why?"

"Perhaps forty winks?"

"That's more like it. You'll be more refreshed when Cass comes later," Watson echoed his thoughts.

"Cass?" Holmes found the strength to quirk an eyebrow curiously.

When had she had the chance to invite Watson to use her given name, he pondered silently.

Suddenly light dawned in his sleep deprived brain.

"Ah. Mrs Hudson didn't just find her on the doorstep, did she John?"

Watson made no reply, but he knew that his face was giving him away.

"Did the trick, didn't it?" He finally muttered as he slid his arm around Holmes waist and prepared to support him as they walked to his bedroom. "You still haven't told me what happened between you two. Or is it personal?"

Holmes made no reply, too busy concentrating on trying to drag one leg in front of the other.

"Lean on me, you silly, stubborn sod, and let's get you to your room before you fall down."

"Is that an order?" Holmes was slurring his words again, his head beginning to droop.

Watson knew that he would be asleep on his feet in a few more minutes.

"You'd better believe it, buster. I'm leaning more towards using something in a hypodermic rather than a punch, so don't push your luck."

"Watson to the rescue, again."

Holmes sounded drunk now, and Watson knew that they would have to get a move on if he was going to actually get Holmes to his room and safely on to the bed before he passed out with exhaustion.

"That's me, your knight in shining armour."

Mrs Hudson suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway with a mug of tea and was startled to find the two men, arms draped around each other, Watson obviously supporting Holmes as they were making slow progress to the living room door.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, slopping tea over the floor. "Sherlock!"

"It's alright Mrs Hudson," Watson assured her quickly. "He's just going to take a nap. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"I know, kept me up most of the night, pacing up and down, up and down ..."

"He's dead on his feet, but he'll be fine after a nice little lie down," Watson reassured her as Holmes began to droop, placing more and more of his weight, such as it was, on Watson, almost dragging him down.

Thank God he wasn't a bigger man or they would both be on the floor in a minute.

"C'mon dozy, let's get you settled."

"Poor Mrs Hudson," Holmes panted as at last they made it to his room and he dropped down heavily on the soft mattress. "She is going to take it badly."

_You can say that again._

"I know."

"Will you tell her, John, please?"

Sherlock flopped back against the soft pillow and emitted a soft moan of relief as Watson lifted his feet, pulled off his shoes and then swung his legs up on to the bed.

"I can't. I can't face her right now. She's no fool. She knows something is badly wrong, and I don't want her to worry any longer. Better to get it out in the open," he fought back a yawn.

"I wanted to be the one to tell her, but frankly, I don't think I can deal with her emotions right now."

"I'll tell her," Watson agreed.

After all, wasn't that what friends were for?

"Better coming from you, I think. You'll be more subtle than I," Holmes eyes were beginning to flutter shut. "Be kind, John. She is very dear to me too."

Watson was surprised.

It was a real indication to Watson that Holmes was indeed a changed man, that he so obviously cared about Hrs Hudson's feelings and how she would take such terrible news.

"I'll be gentle with her," Watson assured.

He was used to breaking bad news to patients.

He had all the right words of reassurance burned into his brain.

But it still wouldn't be easy.

This was Mrs Hudson they were talking about.

"Thank you," Holmes breathed, almost asleep now.

"Do you need any pain medication?" Watson asked as he moved around the room, drawing the curtains and moving Holmes shoes out of the way so he didn't trip over them when he got up later.

"No. I need my wits about me for our meeting with Miss Ingram."

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. If you need the medication, take it. You'll sleep easier if you're not in pain."

"No. I'm fine. Really. It's not so bad at the moment."

"Have it your way."

"And Watson, don't let me sleep too long. What time is it now?"

"Just after eleven."

"Wake me no later than two. That should give me ample time to come around and put my game face on."

"Ok."

Watson watched as Holmes finally gave up the fight to keep his eyes open and settled into a light slumber, watching and waiting until his breathing became regular and deep.

His friend looked so pale, so frail laying there, his face finally peaceful in repost.

They were facing some tough days ahead, but Holmes would put on a brave face and do whatever he thought he needed to do to help Cassia Ingram, even if it killed him.

That was who he was, and even faced with his own potential death, he would not shy away from that.

He was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, and there was one more case for him to pursue.

There would always be one more case.

Intrinsically, it was all that Holmes lived for.

His work.

Watson had accepted that a long time ago.

His job for now was to make sure Holmes could do that job and not further endanger his own life in doing so.

He threw back his shoulders, and puffed out his chest as he drew in a deep breath and prepared to tell Mrs Hudson Sherlock's shocking news, like the friend he was, praying as he walked out of the room that the good Lord above would give him the strength not to break down too, in the face of her grief and distress.

He did not have that luxury quite yet.

That would have to wait until he got home, when he could fall into Mary's loving arms and release his own grief and anger that this should be happening to his friend, Sherlock Holmes.


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter Eighteen.**_

At precisely 3pm, the front door bell of 221B Baker Street rang out and John Watson went to answer the summons, pretty sure as he hurried down the stairs that he would find Cassia Ingram standing on the doorstep.

Of course, he didn't need to have a massive intellect or even to be a detective to deduce that.

She was expected.

She was also prompt.

When he opened the door, John Watson did indeed find Cassia Ingram waiting patiently to be let in, but found that he had to quickly stop himself from reacting to what he saw before him, for he was shocked by the marked deterioration in her appearance.

She looked like the wild woman of Borneo.

She was pale, hair akimbo, left loose, and messy, but not in an artful, contrived, fashion model way, tangled, as though she probably hadn't even combed it and since rising had constantly been running her fingers through it, her eyes were edged by dark purple circles and her cheeks were starting to look sunken.

She almost looked as exhausted and ill as Holmes had before his nap.

She was also nervous, eyes casting around her as she waited for him to move aside to allow her in, and she was twitchy too.

_Was she scared that she was being followed?_

She looked like she had the weight of the world on her young shoulders, haggard, her expression solemn.

The weather had broken just after lunch, just as the forecasters had been predicting all morning and the gathering clouds had indicated.

For over an hour a spectacular lightning display had illuminated the darkened, oddly greenish cast skies over London, rain teeming down like a shower running on full blast, a wall of water jet washing the streets and causing drains to overflow, and thunder had rumbled, firstly in the distance, and then crashed directly over head, rattling the windows in their frames.

It was definitely cooler, but not much fresher, the air thick, sticky, humid and still uncomfortable.

As a result of the change in the weather, Cassia Ingram was wearing denim blue jeans and running shoes without socks, and a bright orange shower jacket, left unzipped over a pale blue short sleeved jumper, all of which looked freshly laundered but un-pressed and hastily donned without much thought.

When she slipped off the damp coat, Watson was shocked to see that she had indeed lost weight, the clothes loose on her frame, even more so than on their previous meeting, when she had been wearing a summer dress that was loose and flowing, hiding her true proportions, the jeans cinched with a thin black leather belt, but still they were falling down around her hips.

His concern for her health and well being, as a doctor, grew considerably.

She looked wretched, and he suddenly recalled their conversation of the day before, when she had confessed that physically she could not take much more of this distress because of her horrific dreams.

The physical distress she was suffering was becoming more and more noticeable, and he realized that for Cassia Ingram, this audience with Sherlock Holmes had not come soon enough.

However, she managed to greet him warmly, finding a genuine smile of gratitude and greeting as he took her coat and hung it up, and then showed her up the stairs.

Firstly Sherlock, and now Cassia.

Both of them suffering under the pressure of very genuine physical discomfort, and real time constraints.

Watson knew that he was going to have to be on top of his game during this meeting, keeping a close eye on both of them, because with emotions running high on both sides, it could get damned ugly very quickly.

It all depended on Holmes's attitude and how he chose to deal with Cassia Ingram.

_God help us all then!_

The first thing that surprised Watson was that Holmes was immediately out of his chair, his expression neutral as he walked slowly and with measured step, to Cassia Ingram and reaching out, took both of her hands gently in his in greeting.

"Cass."

"Sherlock."

They greeted each other like long lost friends.

Watson almost tripped over his own feet as he stopped in the doorway.

He simply could not believe what he was seeing.

Holmes did not let go of her hands, instead he used them to support Cassia and guide her across the room to the chair opposite his own.

For her part, Cassia Ingram gave Holmes a warm, genuine smile, and when he finally released her hands, she reached up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, smiling shyly as she drew away, then lightly trailed her fingers firstly along his brow and then along his strong jaw line, gazing deeply into his pale blue/grey eyes.

Holmes did not react this time.

He did not shy away from her touch, he too looking deeply into her eyes, scrutinizing her face, undoubtedly assessing the change in her physical condition and reading the emotional distress, which she was trying so hard to keep under control, in her deep green eyes.

Cassia smiled gently at Holmes at last, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

Holmes merely nodded back.

They both sat down.

John Watson was both astounded and impressed by what he was witnessing.

He had never seen Holmes greet anyone like that before.

Not even his closest family members got such a warm welcome.

Gone were the usual haughtiness and disdain.

_Good God!_

_What the hell had she said to him yesterday?_

_Was she a witch after all?_

_Had she indeed cast some kind of spell over Holmes?_

_Well, good for her!_

Still, it was so out of character for Holmes that Watson found it most disconcerting.

_Was he playing some kind of game? Toying with her?_

_Drawing Cassia Ingram in, only to pounce on her once more?_

Watson fervently hoped not.

Holmes had seemed resigned to hearing her out without any kind of bias or prejudice earlier in the day, but of course, that could have changed.

Like the weather.

Cassia Ingram was already visibly suffering under the weight of the burden that she was carrying. She did not need Holmes taunting her.

Holmes' mood had been very quiet and withdrawn since his nap.

He had slept, fitfully, due to the storm, but he had looked slightly better when Watson went to rouse him at 2pm as he had requested.

He had had a quick wash and changed his shirt, which had been soaked with perspiration, and had silently, and without any kind of fuss, accepted and swallowed down the pain medication that Watson had handed to him with a glass of water.

Mrs Hudson had been nowhere in evidence, much to Holmes relief, but one questioning look at Watson confirmed that his friend had indeed broken the news to their landlady and she had not taken it at all well.

Neither man had spoken of it. Both releasing that now was not the time.

Holmes was still feeling queasy, refusing solid food, but Watson had managed to persuade him to drink a cup of tea and nibble on a Rich Tea biscuit, and he had later admitted that that had helped to settle his stomach a little.

However, Holmes present benign attitude, despite being totally out of character, boded well for a positive and fruitful meeting, and that could only be good for all concerned, Watson decided.

Good for Holmes too, for realizing that he would need to treat Cassia Ingram with kid gloves.

_Colour me Mr Sensitive!_

It made a refreshing change from the smug, Holier than thou attitude.

Again there was no offer of tea, or even anything stronger.

There was no preamble at all.

There was no need.

Everyone knew what they were here for.

It was going to be straight down to business.

Holmes sat back in his seat, crossed one leg over the other and regarded Cassia Ingram with steady pale eyes, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his right hand coming up to rest against his chin, fingers splayed out across his cheek.

"There have been more dreams."

It wasn't a question.

It was obvious to him from her manner and her appearance.

He was silently appalled by the marked deterioration in her appearance, but the thing that had touched him most of all was the fear and horror he could see in her eyes and the distinct trembling of her hands.

Cassia Ingram nodded, running her tongue nervously around her lips.

"Not just dreams, Sherlock. It's been happening when I'm awake too. Flashes of visions, much more detailed than before," she confessed in a low, nervous, gravelly voice, further evidence of a very recent heavy bout of weeping.

"Cass, how does this work for you?" Watson interrupted, much to Holmes chagrin, as evidenced by the sharp look he threw at his colleague.

However, Watson was undeterred.

He was interested to know how the psychic gift worked for Cassia Ingram, so that he could better understand, as a doctor, how and why it could have such an obvious physical and emotion effect on her.

"You see and hear ..."

He fished for the right words, but came up blank.

"Yes. I am clairvoyant and clairaudient, John," Cassia explained on a ragged breath. "I have visions and I hear voices. Mostly I have dreams, but there have also been times, like now, when I see and hear things, flashes or images, when I am awake. I also use psychometrics. I hold an object that once belonged to someone who has passed and I am able to pick up vibrations, information about their personality and their life from that object."

"Do you dream in colour?"

He was genuinely interested.

His dreams, or rather his worst nightmares, the ones that he remembered most, had almost always been in colour and had felt so real he could have been back there in the moment.

"Yes. Glorious Technicolor and Dolby surround sound," Cassia bowed her head briefly, wrestling to hold back her emotions. "I can also touch things, taste and smell things some times too, and of course, I feel emotions."

She paused to draw in a slow, refreshing breath.

"Usually, what I see is symbolic, rarely is it as simple as just seeing something and being able to say exactly what it is, or what is happening. Usually I have to try to work out the symbolism, and translate it into something that people can understand, but not this time. This is very specific and vivid. It's like watching a real life horror movie in my head, and I just want it to stop."

There was a catch in her voice, and Watson noticed a solitary tear dribbling down her cheek now.

"Tell me," Holmes invited now in a low, gentle voice, unable to hide the fact that he was genuinely moved by her reactions.

No histrionics, just unabashed honesty.

It had more effect on him than screaming and sobbing hysterically.

She was trying to be detached, and Holmes admired that, needed to encourage it, he realized, so that he could get to the truth.

"Tell me everything, but, try to keep the emotion out of it, please," he advised. "I know that won't be easy for you, but it will be helpful, for both of us."

She raised her watery eyes to look at Holmes and nodded, dislodging the tears, which rolled unashamedly down her cheeks to her chin, and she made no effort at all to dash them away.

At that moment she looked like someone who no longer had the strength left to fight and was resigned to her fate.

"Cass, I _know_ the importance of this to you, but you don't _need_ to try to make me feel it," Holmes told her in sincere tones. "And you will find it easier to think more clearly if your thoughts are not clouded by strong emotion."

Cassia Ingram nodded silently in understanding.

She knew that he was right.

She would be eternally grateful that at that moment Holmes had chosen to be patient, tolerant, and to listen, not dismiss her out of hand or go off on a rant.

His negativity and resistance would have made this so much more difficult.

"Just tell me what you see. Everything that you think is important. Give me facts, not supposition, or speculation. Take your time, and tell me everything. Even the smallest detail might prove to be important. You are my eyes and ears in this, Cass, so I need you to be as observant and describe what you see as accurately as you can."

As she regarded him now, Cassia Ingram managed to raise a weak smile.

_Finally._

_Acceptance._

_At last he understood._

She had been sent to him to use as a tool to get to the truth.

_Thank you._

Meanwhile, watching in silent admiration, John Watson, pad and pen in hand prepared to take notes.

Down to the nitty gritty at last.

The atmosphere in the tiny living room suddenly changed, somehow charged with a new energy.

Sherlock's energy.

Cassia Ingram dragged in a long, ragged breath and tried to formulate her thoughts as to where to start.

It was no use.

She knew it would have to come to this, but it still terrified her.

The only way she could do as Sherlock was asking was to put herself back into her vision, relax her mental controls and protections and allow the images to bombard and overwhelm her, but this time, she had to try to block out the emotions that went along with the images.

Silently she asked for help from the only ones who could assist her in that, those that she had always placed her trust in on the other side.

_Give me the strength to get through this, please._

_Don't let me blow it. _

_This is the only chance I will get to make him understand, so please, help me to get it right._

_And please, don't let me lose my mind!_

Cassia Ingram closed her eyes and began to try to regulate her breathing.

Almost immediately she let down her mental guard, the images began to assault her, like a physical blow, and she emitted a soft, low moan of anguish.

"Cass," Holmes soft low baritone voice was close to her ear now, for he had slid out of his chair to kneel before her, taking her hand in his gently.

"Tell me what you see," he coaxed gently, and Watson was utterly amazed by the concern and tenderness he could see in Holmes expression.

Never again would his friend be able to convincingly tell him that he had no heart, and no good nature to appeal to.

The big wet Nelly!

"It's dark. Night. No moon. I hear an owl hooting in the distance and a fox barking. Cold..."

She suddenly shivered, and for one crazy moment, Watson could have sworn that the temperature in the room dropped dramatically.

"Wet. There's water dripping from the trees. I think there was snow, but it's been melting during the day. I smell wet earth and vegetation all around and the ground beneath me is sodden, muddy. Woodland I think, dense and dark and very secluded."

Holmes turned his head to watch Watson write down everything that she was saying and nodded approvingly.

"Do you have any sense of the time of the year? The season?"

Holmes probed, hoping for some clue as to a time frame.

"It's cold, very cold, I can see a fine mist and there is frost forming on the trees and on the ground."

Cassia described what she could see, realizing as she did so that this was something that she had not been aware of before.

Holmes had been right.

Putting aside the fear and anxiety she had experienced before was helping her to focus more clearly on the finer details of her vision.

"How long ago are we talking, Cass? Is this recent, or a while ago?"

"Recent. It feels very recent. Months, not years."

"Good. Late Winter, perhaps early Spring then. Winter was long and Spring late this year. We had snow well into March, so we could be looking at some time around April or May," Holmes deduced aloud. "Make a note of that, please, John."

Watson nodded silently and carried on scribbling.

"Alright Cass, carry on please."

"I can hear the wind in the trees, only a slight breeze, and animals moving around, but no sign of traffic or other human activity close by."

"Where are you?"

"Woods," she repeated.

"No."

There was a hint of frustration in Holmes voice now.

"I need you to be more specific. A place name, perhaps?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, it doesn't work quite like that. All I can tell you is what I see, and all I see is a kind of copse or clearing," she let out a ragged breath and suddenly gave a start.

"Cass?"

Holmes' voice was edged with concern now.

"I'm standing over a grave, small, freshly dug, but it's not in a cemetery, and this is not a funeral service, there are no mourners, and no coffin, just the body of a small child."

Her voice was very small and she made a small whimpering sound, then caught herself up and paused to draw in a refreshing breath before continuing, eyes still clamped shut, her body tense and swaying slightly in the chair, although Sherlock suspected that she was so deep in concentration now she no longer had any idea of what was happening around her or to her physically.

She was not in a trance, but she had surrendered herself completely to the vision.

So far she was doing exactly as he had asked of her, describing what she saw, in detail, stoic and trying desperately to keep the powerful, negative emotions out of her voice.

"It's the body of a little girl. She is blonde, and her blue eyes are open in death. She is very small, like a china doll, her body frail, almost emaciated. Her clothes are nothing but filthy rags. She doesn't look to have been very well looked after in life," her voice suddenly caught in her throat, but Sherlock understood that it was a reasonable reaction.

It could also prove to be a helpful observation.

"What is she wearing?" Holmes quizzed, altering his position slightly as his knees where starting to ache. "I'm sorry to press you, Cass, but it could be important, if a body is ever found."

"She's naked," Cassie shuddered. "Poor angel."

_Damn, that wasn't much help_! Holmes thought sourly.

"In your other dreams, visions, have you ever seen her clothed?" he pressed.

Cassie paused, forcing her mind to push the shocking image to one side so that she could go back to the other dreams and visions she had been subjected to in recent days.

It didn't take long.

Suddenly the scene shifted, and she saw the child as she had been in the last moments of her life and she recoiled in her seat.

Fortunately Sherlock's hands were once again there to steady her.

"Cass?"

"I see her. She's wearing denim dungarees, you know the kind, bottom half jeans top half a bib with straps and buttons at the shoulders."

Holmes didn't know the kind because he had never paid that much attention to children's attire, never having had any of his own and had spent very little time with children at all.

"They're old. Knees so thin they are worn almost in hole, and the hems undone and frayed. She's wearing a plain long sleeve sky blue jumper under it. The elbows are patched and the cuffs are frayed too."

Suddenly her expression changed, as though she suddenly caught a whiff of something pungent and unpleasant.

"Her clothes are stained, food and vomit. Poor mite, she soiled herself too."

A frown suddenly drew down her brow, as she concentrated on focusing on some other detail so as not to be overwhelmed by her emotions, as she realized that even before her abduction and murder the poor child had been neglected and abused.

"There's some kind of motif on the bib of the dungarees, but I can't make it out because it's faded, like it's been laundered so often the colours have been washed out, and she is covered with a layer of leaves and soil," Cassia explained, a pained expression on her face, her eyelids tightly screwed as she concentrated even harder.

"It could be a Teddy Bear, Winnie the Pooh or perhaps Paddington Bear, something like that, but I really can't be sure."

There was frustration in both her face and her voice now as she strained to see more detail.

"That's fine, Cass. You're doing fine. What else do you see?" Holmes encouraged in soft tones, patting her hand gently.

"She has no shoes on. No socks either. Her legs and feet are cut and bruised. Her hair is long, and braided, you know, a plait down her back, but it's filthy, unwashed. Sherlock, I really think this child was neglected before she was taken," she tried valiantly to stifle a sob, but was unsuccessful.

"No, Cass. Just the facts, not speculation or supposition, remember?" Holmes reminded softly, deciding that that was more than enough detail for now and so steered the conversation in a new direction.

"Look at the body Cass," he directed, knowing that it was not going to be easy for her, but he needed to know as much as he could.

"Are you able to see if she has any injuries? Can you tell how she died?" he coaxed gently, knowing that he was putting pressure on her, forcing her closer to the limits of her emotional control, and was concerned about how much more she could tolerate before she reached the limit of her endurance.

It was frustrating for Holmes that he could not see the scene for himself, so he needed her to describe everything that she could see as clearly and concisely as she could.

A shudder ran down Cassia Ingram's entire body.

"Oh God, Oh God ... He cut her throat!" she choked out, her body convulsing forward violently, and Holmes had to use his other hand to support her shoulder or she would have fallen out of the chair and on top of him.

"Alright Cass, take a step back for a moment," Holmes instructed as he helped her to sit back in her seat. "Give yourself a moment to compose yourself."

"No. I want to go on."

She was adamant now, her voice tight, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"He cut her throat, and the end was quick, but he took his time with the rest of it."

She spoke more rapidly now, as though if she didn't get the words out, she would choke on them, revulsion in her voice now.

Another shudder ran down her body and again Sherlock squeezed her hand reassuringly.

John Watson, scribbling notes, could not help but admire Holmes for his patience, and his empathy with Cass Ingram.

He would never have guessed that Holmes had it in him.

He found himself wondering if Holmes had ever thought himself capable of such tenderness and understanding either.

"He assaulted her," Cassia whispered in a low, disgusted voice now, tears slipping from between her closed eyelids. "Repeatedly, almost strangling her, then letting her breathe once more, only to assault her again ..."

She didn't need to go into detail.

Holmes understood perfectly well what she was telling him.

The poor child had been defiled.

The thought both appalled and disgusted him.

"Christ, how can anyone do that to a baby! He's a beast, Sherlock, an animal!"

"Cass, please, no emotion," Holmes reminded her, but not unkindly, and Cassia Ingram made a visible effort to draw back, sitting up straighter in her chair and taking in several long, deep breaths.

However, it did not help.

"Oh f ..." she groaned in anguish. "I can't! I can't do this! Don't make me do this!

"Cass!"

Holmes voice was sharper now, and he squeezed her hand, hard.

He did not know if she was talking to him, the spirits or herself, but he needed her to focus once more.

He did not want to hurt her, but he needed to snap her out of this emotional state she was slipping into, before she became completely hysterical, and totally useless to him.

Pain usually centred the mind.

He knew that better than anyone at the present time.

He would slap her if he had to, but decided to squeeze her hand hard, once more, and this time it seemed to do the trick

"I'm sorry ... I'm sorry ..." she made a visible effort to pull herself together now, gulping in air and swallowing down ragged sobs.

"It's alright, Cass. I know how difficult this must be for you ..."

Holmes really did.

The emotions that she was experiencing were very real, and all the more painful because they were the uncontrolled, unfiltered emotions of a terrified, dying child.

"He tortured her."

The words were uttered in a low, breathy voice now, so low that Watson almost didn't hear them.

Even Holmes, although he was up close to her, seemed to be struggling to make out what she was saying because he was having to lean in closer to Cassia Ingram.

"He kept her locked away in the dark somewhere. He gagged her. Tied her up, even though she was no threat to him and could not have escaped anyway. There was nowhere for her to run."

There was no more emotion in Cassia Ingram's voice now, her expression blank, she was numb, but tears streamed silently down her white face which splashed onto the back of Holmes hand.

Watson suddenly wanted to demand that Holmes stop this, but he knew that it would be pointless.

It was cruel, but, unfortunately, it was necessary, and Holmes was doing his best to try make it less traumatic for her by talking her through it and encouraging her to step back from the emotion.

The information that Cassia Ingram was providing could prove to be extremely important.

No wonder the poor woman looked so ill, Watson thought. She had been forced to live through that nightmare, time after time after time, night after night.

Watson was amazed that she hadn't gone completely out of her mind, and he thought that she was incredibly brave to put herself through this.

"He starved her, but she was used to that. He beat her, punched her, slapped her. He used her as an ash tray, stubbing out his cigarettes on the delicate flesh of her thighs and upper arms. He did it all, over and over and over again until finally, when he had no more strength and she was almost dead anyway, he took out a small knife and cut her throat."

"He's a smoker, good. Can you tell what brand?"

"Marlboro Lights."

Cassia responded without thought or hesitation as she watched a hand pull out a packet of cigarettes and take one out to light it.

Holmes glanced at Watson who was scribbling madly and gave him a look that told his friend that that could be important, so he underlined it, twice.

If they ever found the crime scene or grave site, there could be discarded cigarette butts and ash, an analysis of which would prove which brand, and possible DNA too.

"Good. Good."

Holmes spoke in a low, soothing voice now.

"It was brutal, relentless, and manic and he revelled in it!"

A sob caught in her throat now, her control slipping once more, and Watson saw Holmes close his eyes and rock back on his heels, briefly, as though he too suddenly felt the wave of emotions coursing through Cassia Ingram at that moment.

"Then he threw her into the hole he had already dug and covered her over with earth and twigs and foliage."

"So, it was planned, not an accident or a spur of the moment flash of uncontrolled anger? And she died where she is buried?"

Holmes found his voice now, needing to regain his usual detachment.

"He brought her to that place and killed her there?" He clarified, needing to be sure that that was what she was telling him.

"Yes. But he kept her somewhere close by. Somewhere underground I think."

"Do you have any idea where this place is Cass?"

"No. I already told you ..."

"Look around you," Holmes directed sharply.

"There's nothing. Nothing but darkness, and trees and the night. Oh God ..."

Suddenly her control was gone and she slumped forward, burying her face in Holmes bony shoulder, almost knocking him backwards on to his backside, as sobs overwhelmed her body.

Holmes absorbed her weight with some difficulty, feeling fragile as he was, his usual strength eluding him, and allowed her a moment to vent her emotions, and then carefully he used both hands to push her shoulders back, moving her away from him, her head coming up as he guided her back into her seat.

"I'm sorry,"

Her face was awash with tears and she croaked out in a voice thick with raw emotion, her eyes open now, welling with fresh tears and imploring him to forgive her this lapse in self control.

"No Cass, I'm sorry."

Holmes let out a shuddering breath and rose slowly, carefully stretching his legs and his aching knees, more disturbed by what she had told him, and what he was feeling as a consequence than he cared to admit, before sitting down opposite Cassia Ingram.

"I shouldn't have put you through that."

"_You_ didn't." Cass smiled weakly as fresh tears welled in her eyes. "_They _did, and it will be worth it if you can find the man responsible for this and stop him before he kills again."

Cassia blinked away her tears, this time using the back of her hand to blot them away as she fixed her green eyes on Holmes.

"Now you know why I wouldn't give up. He needs to be stopped."

"Cass, do you have any sense as to how he came upon the child?"

"He was kind to her. I think he lured her away with sweets, perhaps a new toy, or even a kitten or a puppy ... "

She paused, momentarily.

"How does any adult gain the trust of a child? With treats and promises of something better than they have and she was ripe for the picking. He offered her love and affection, the things that she had been starved of for most her young life. He didn't seem threatening. He was nice to her. She was confused when he changed, when he locked her away in the dark and she thought he didn't like her anymore, but she wasn't afraid of him, until it was too late."

Holmes nodded.

It was a story as old as time its self.

_Like a lamb to the slaughter._

"You keep saying _he_. You're absolutely sure it was a man?"

"Yes. No woman could do the physical things he did to that child."

She shuddered in revulsion now.

"You're sure he works alone?" Holmes pressed, knowing that if the killer had a female partner working with him that would also have helped to put the child at ease with him and helped to gain her trust.

"Yes. I don't get any sense that he has help. He's selfish. He wants the thrill all to himself."

"Can you describe him?" Holmes asked hopefully.

She had already given him much more than he could have hoped for, but it still wasn't enough.

With a physical description, he could go to Scotland Yard and ask LeStrade to let him see their mug shots of known child killers and paedophiles.

It would be somewhere to start.

He could put that together with the Modus Operandi and then they might actually begin to make some progress.

"No."

"You don't see him? Cass, she must have seen his face?"

"I know, that Sherlock, but I can't see him."

"Cass?"

Holmes pressed, frowning deeply, suddenly getting the sense that she was holding something back from him.

"If I knew, don't you think that I would tell you!" Cassia snapped angrily now.

She had held nothing back from him up to this point, Holmes was sure, and she had no logical reason to withhold details of this man's physical description from him, if she was aware of those details.

"I told you everything, just as you asked. _Everything_!"

"Alright, alright." Holmes soothed, letting out a deep sigh. "Perhaps that will come later."

Perhaps the child was too traumatized to think about the man who had taken her life.

Perhaps she was so young she did not have the words to describe him and could not bring herself to conjure up his image for Cassia to see.

Holmes let out another deep sigh.

_Damn._

_That was disappointing._

"This isn't the first time he's done this, Sherlock."

There was certainty in Cassia Ingram's voice and in her eyes now.

She was finally getting her emotions back under control, producing a tissue out of her pocket to dab at her tears.

"It doesn't feel like it anyway. It doesn't frighten him, taking a life. He doesn't hesitate and he doesn't rush into it. He's patient. He plans it ahead of time, knows what he wants and how to get it. He's too sure of himself, too confident that he will get away with it. That is the sense I am getting."

She paused for a moment to organize her thoughts before continuing.

"He may have done this before, a long time ago and got away with it. Perhaps he was shocked then, disgusted by what he did and tried to control the urges, promising himself that he would never do it again, but it was too hard for him, soon it was all he could think about and he couldn't control the need any longer, and now he's started again."

"Tell me more about the child," Holmes invited.

He had been curious from the start to know how a child could simply disappear without anyone reporting it missing.

It would help him to know about her background, where she came from, and why no-one seemed to have missed her.

"I can't. I don't know anything more about her than I told you. I can only tell you what I saw."

"You don't feel any of her emotions then?" Holmes was frowning deeply now. "I thought she was the one who came to you to ask for your help."

"_I_ didn't say that, Sherlock. _You_ did," Cassia hung her head briefly.

"So you're dreams and visions are not coming from the child's perspective?"

Holmes persisted, surprise and confusion in his voice now.

"No, Sherlock," Cassia confessed raggedly.

Watson watched the exchange, scratching his head and frowning now.

Had he missed something?

All this time, everything that she had been describing, everything that she had been feeling, surely that had come from the child's point of view.

That had certainly been the impression that she had been giving to Watson.

That all that she had seen and felt had come from the victim.

Holmes had got that impression too, if the look of confusion on his face was anything to go by.

"You remember the first time we met and you asked me if I had witnessed the murder, or perhaps I had carried out the murder myself?"

Holmes nodded, and he also remembered her odd reaction to his accusation.

"I told you I hadn't murdered anyone, that I hadn't seen it and I didn't know who it was," she paused to drag in a cleansing breath. "That was all true, as far as it went."

"I don't understand," Watson interjected now, although he could see from Holmes' expression that the penny had already dropped for him, as he turned his head slightly to regard Cassia Ingram with a new kind of respect.

"You're not getting these impressions from the child herself, are you."

Holms spoke softly now.

It wasn't a question, but a statement.

"You're getting them from the killer."

"Yes," Cassia whimpered, a look of utter shame and embarrassment on her face.

"It's always _his_ perspective, _his_ feelings, _his_ thoughts, the absolute elation _he_ gets in the grooming, the building of trust and the befriending, all the time knowing what he is going to do to them, then the satisfaction _he_ gets in gaining trust and then luring them away, and the thrill _he_ gets from the torture, and the overwhelming relief and joy _he_ gets from the killing," Cassia confirmed in a very shaky voice. "I _feel_ it all, Sherlock, and I see it all, as though I _am _him."

She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, slumping back in her chair.

"That is how I know he's done it before, and that is also how I know he is building up to doing it again. That feeling of relief, it never lasts long, Sherlock, and he's hungry again. He may already have found his next victim, and you have to stop him, Sherlock. You _have_ to."


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter Nineteen.**_

After Cassia Ingram had departed 221B Baker Street, Holmes and Watson had sat in silent contemplation for quite a while, listening to rain battering against the windows and another round of thunder rumbling ominously, intermittently, in the distance.

The air was still oppressive and sultry outside, and inside Holmes living room, there was still an atmosphere of surprise.

Both men were stunned by Cassia Ingram's revelations of the past hour, and both were also equally shocked and moved by her bravery, and by the look on the poor woman's face as she had taken her leave.

Abject horror and embarrassment at what she had confessed, in those unusually deep green eyes, along with a plea from the heart to help her, to make it all stop.

Actually, she had bolted like a hunted animal, and both men had quickly realized that for her, there was no relief, no respite from the relentless horror of her waking dreams and night terrors, despite the fact that she had unburdened herself.

It wasn't over.

Not by a long shot and she was living on her nerves, unable to rest or garner any kind of peace from the onslaught of emotions that bombarded her.

When she wasn't actually _feeling_ them, she was thinking about them, dwelling on them, unable to get the vivid images out of her head.

It was eating her alive.

There was also another element to it, Holmes realized.

Poor Cassia was terrified of what _she_ might do whilst engrossed in one of her dreams, or visions.

She was petrified at how strong, how utterly overwhelming the killer's emotions were to her.

He had no control over his own emotions, and that made controlling her own that much more difficult, so much so that she feared what she might do under his influence, if she lost control of herself and he somehow managed to take control of her mind, what he might be capable of forcing her to do.

Most of all, she was beside herself with fear that she might go mad before this was done.

Still, Holmes had quickly realized that what she had told him was a real game changer.

It could be used to their advantage, but he would have to be patient and very gentle with her, if he was to coax the information that he needed from her, at their next meeting.

She was right to be concerned about her mental fragility.

High emotion and lack of sleep and nourishment were sure to weaken her mental control, and whatever controls and protections she had learned to manage her psychic gift, and her ability to remain detached.

Eventually, as the thunder passed on and the rain stopped, Watson made coffee and encouraged Holmes to nibble on a slice of Madeira cake that Mrs Hudson had bought with some other groceries the previous day, while Holmes reviewed Watson's scribbled notes, not to refresh his memory, but to gain a different perspective to his own.

"I wanted to thank you, for speaking to Mrs Hudson. I shouldn't have burdened you with that, John, but ..."

"It's alright, Sherlock. I understood."

"Was she terribly upset?"

"No, she went home laughing her bloody head off, you tosser, of course she was upset! She's been through it before too, remember?"

"Yes. I do appreciate it, John."

"I know."

"I can't have been easy for you."

"It wasn't."

Watson shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, recalling the deluge of silent tears from Mrs Hudson as he had held her frail body in his arms.

"Can we move on now, please?"

"Of course."

"How do you feel?" Watson asked as he regarded Holmes carefully. His friend was rubbing his brow with his fingertips, a pinched expression on his face.

"Like my brain is too big for my skull," Holmes confessed with a weak smile.

"Fancy that," Watson sighed.

The pain meds were obviously wearing off, but he couldn't safely give Holmes any more for at least another couple of hours.

"I thought that was how you usually felt."

"Very drool," Holmes gaze suddenly found Watson's. "You remember I once told you that my mind is like an engine, constantly running, burning out of control, like a rocket on the launch pad but going nowhere. Do you think ...?"

"No!" Watson cut him off. "No, Sherlock. You have a tumour. It is real, solid, and physiological, a growth, and it has nothing to do with your intellect or your mind racing out of control, so put that out of your head."

"Thank you."

"For a bloke with a superior intellect, you can sometimes come out with some complete crap," Watson grinned now, devouring his cake with obvious enjoyment. "What do you think?"

He glanced at the notepad resting on Holmes knee as he took a sip of his coffee.

"Comprehensive, as usual, and insightful. Thank you."

"You were wrong."

"I beg your pardon?"

"We were_ both_ wrong," Watson corrected himself when he saw the reproachful look on Holmes face. "We both thought she was picking up information from the victim."

"Hmmmm. I made an incorrect assumption."

It was as close to an admission that he could be wrong that Holmes was ever going to get.

"You can say that again. By the way, did you find your scarf palatable?"

Holmes made a face.

"Very attrractive. If the wind changes direction you'll stick like that," Watson quipped. "You never did tell me what she said that made you change your mind."

Watson had a feeling that Holmes never would either.

"A few home truths," Holmes confided, surprising Watson.

"Oh?"

"If you must know, she successfully predicted Mrs Hudson's scratch card win. She also knew that I was feeling ill and diagnosed my condition before Sir Frederick called with the news. She even told me I would hear from him that night, and I did."

"She also told you that you're going to live to a ripe old age."

"Mmmm. That remains to be seen, however, she was pretty accurate with everything else, however, prefer to I live in hope rather than expectation."

And that was all Watson needed to know.

"Impressive."

Watson meant it.

Yet, he quickly realized that it would have needed to be something drastic like that to make Holmes change his rigid mindset.

"Let's just say that it was sufficient to sway my mind more in her favour. I can be open minded when I need to be."

Both men were suddenly thinking of Holmes upcoming surgery and just how 'open minded' he really would be, and they shared a wry smile.

"So, what have we learned?" Holmes asked, licking his finger then running it over his plate to pick up the last of his cake crumbs before licking them off his finger with relish.

_Here we go again..._

"More cake?"

"No thank you, and please don't avoid the question. I'm interested to know what you think, John. You may have picked up on something that I missed."

_Oh sure, and tomorrow I'll wake up and find out the Queen has knighted me for services to the country, not!_

There was no getting out of, and Sherlock had asked nicely.

_Damn him!_

"Ok, the killer, is male. He works alone, has a penchant for little girls and smokes Marlboro fags," Watson summed up succinctly with a nasty sneer twisting his lips as his imagination conjured up the brutalized and violated body of an angelic blue eyed blonde haired little girl.

"Marlboro Lights," Holmes reminded, but there was no sarcasm in his tone.

"Sick bastard." Watson ground out between clenched teeth.

"Indeed. What else?" Holmes probed, taking a sip of his sweet black coffee to wash the cake crumbs from his throat.

Watson thought for a moment, fearing that Holmes was still hoping to catch him out.

"He's clever. He's also very careful. He has a plan that works and he's confident of not getting caught. Other than that, I really don't know what else Cass said that could help us."

Watson let out a deep sigh as he recognized the look in Holmes' eyes now.

_Alright smartarse, take the floor ..._

"Actually, we don't _know_ that his penchant is just for little girls," Holmes corrected, but not unkindly. "And he's probably the last person anyone would think capable of doing such things," he deduced. "He's also young."

"How the hell do you _know_ that?"

"I don't. Not for certain, but it stands to reason that he looks young, or is at least able to pass himself off as young, child like, and is in no way frightening or threatening. _Think_ John!" Holmes declared. "He was able to approach a child without frightening her, and gain her trust. He knew exactly how to entice her without making her wary or frightened."

"Ok." Watson conceded.

"He probably comes across as a kindly older brother type."

Watson had to agree that that made sense, as far as it went, but he still didn't know how that helped them.

He didn't really know how anything that Cassia Ingram had told them would help them root out a child killer, it had all seemed so vague, except the emotions involved of course, and the very obvious affect this was having on her body and her mind.

"And he's particular about his victim," Holmes continued, sipping more of his coffee. "He knows the kind of child to target. Vulnerable babes, neglected, unloved, lonely, ignored, the ones he knows won't be missed, or worried over."

Holmes let out a deep, ragged sigh, obviously disturbed by his own conclusions.

As a doctor, Watson was aware of the darker side of so called family life in Britain and that even in this day and age there were still many such children.

For example, the off spring of parents hooked on drugs and driven by their own selfish needs to maintain their habit, ignored and neglected, left to fend for themselves while their parents got high.

Abused children, trapped at the whim of cruel men and women with mental illnesses, who used their children to compensate for their own inadequacies and make themselves feel superior and worthwhile, or to simply satisfy their own sick needs to control, using violence and mental torture to maintain their control over their victims just because they could.

There were other kids too, the ones whose parents set out wanting them, loving them, but circumstances ground them down, no work, no money, no hope, and so the children somehow got forgotten and abandoned along the way, left to their own devices, playing in the street without supervision because no-one could afford adequate child care.

Kids having kids.

Young girls who were no more than babies themselves, raised in loveless homes with no real role models and no idea how to take care of their little ones, looking for a way to escape their miserable existences, but really only succeeding in making their lives, and those of their babies, worse.

Any one of these kids would be easy pickings for a predator.

And that is what they had, or so it seemed.

"He's methodical. Compulsive, not _impulsive_. He's patient too, he watches and makes his plans, yet, he doesn't stand out from the crowd. No-one would ever suspect him," Holmes added, absently running his finger around the rim of his coffee mug.

"And I don't think he comes from a city or urban area. He takes these children with ease and they are not missed. In the city, someone would notice, nosy neighbours, little old ladies twitching their net curtains, but in the countryside, where neighbours are more spread out, it's more probable that a child could disappear for days and no-one would even notice, especially a child who was not of school age."

"A four year old would be in school, Sherlock. Either pre-school, or reception class."

"Then that narrows the field even more. We should be looking at close communities that live outside of the usual rules and laws."

Watson frowned.

"Think, Watson," Holmes coaxed, noting the frown drawing down his friend's brow.

"I _am_ thinking." Watson growled. "Are you talking about immigrant communities?"

"Perhaps. It's one option, I suppose."

However, he did not sound convinced.

"What are the others?"

"Those who choose to live on the fringes, Watson. Communities without any real roots. Those who move around to find work or simply because life gets too difficult for them to stay in one place too long," Holmes explained his line of thinking. "Gypsys. Romanys, Travellers, whatever they call themselves these days, following ancient traditions and ways of life. New Age Traveller communities, environmental protestors who travel around the country to campaign against things like the destruction of ancient woodland to build yet another new road, or Fracking for oil or gas, or those who operate travelling fairs, carnivals or circuses."

"That's brilliant!" Watson declared, obviously impressed, for he would never have thought about any of those things.

Even with the grand daddy of all headaches and fears for his own mortality on his mind, Holmes was still on fine form, and it never failed to amaze his friend.

"Thank you. It is one theory worth investigating. Our man probably travels around the country, picks his victim, does the deed, then moves on before anyone is any the wiser, probably before anyone even notices that a child is missing, and no-one ever suspects."

"Oh, eventually someone might put two and two together and connect the fact that strangers were in the area, but then they might put it down to coincidence, after all, nothing could ever be proved without a body, and our man knows how to dispose of a body in isolated spots, where there is little or no chance of them being discovered. He choses places that are remote, but probably have fairly good access roads, after all, he needs to get them there. There are still such places in this country, remote, desolate places unsuitable for habtitation, but with small communities living on the edges. Remember Dartmoor?"

Watson nodded, then he rememberd how bleak and empty the place had been, save for a few villages, and Baskerville, and knew that could not fit the bill, because Cassia Ingram had been adamant that it was dense woodland.

"Not moorland, Sherlock."

"No. That narrows our search parameters even more. Woodland. It may not even have a name, or even be on the map. Have you driven around this country much?" Watson nodded. "All those miles of motorway with only trees as far as the eye can see, miles and miles of pine forest, some of it old, remnants of ancient forests, some of it used for commercial purposes," He speculated now. "Great swathes of it cut through to make way for the motorways. That is more likely to be the kind of place he finds convenient, and that is why there has been nothing in the papers or on the news. He commits the perfect murder then moves on, functioning normally until the need to kill gets too strong for him to control."

"There's just one problem with that, Sherlock, those kinds of communities don't travel in the winter, from what I understand. Don't they hole up in static winter quarters?"

"Indeed they do, well done, my friend." Holmes sighed. "But in the early Spring those with fairs or carnivals or circuses start preparing for the season, gathering together to work on their equipment, carrying out repairs to rides and the like, and to take on fresh labour."

Holmes paused for a moment, worrying on the inside of his lip with his teeth, briefly, then his expression changed to one of triumph, an expression that Watson easily recognized.

"Houston, we have a mistake!" Holmes declared, and Watson recalled the very first time that he had accompanied Holmes to a crime scene, where he had declared that he hated serial killers because you had to wait for them to make a mistake.

"How so?"

"He couldn't control the urges any longer, after all it had been a long, hard winter, holed up, and having to bide his time. Perhaps our man got impatient and he took a child from somewhere close to his winter camp, knowing that it would be months before he would be back, and that they would be long gone before the child was missed."

"And he could be just about anywhere by now."

"Indeed," Holmes concurred.

"And Cass is certain that he is getting ready to strike again," Watson emitted a deep sigh.

"I know."

"So you believe her?"

"I have no reason not to. You saw her, John. You were right about that. She isn't faking how badly this is affecting her, both physically and emotionally. That is why we need to get her back here as soon as we can. I need to get her to focus her thoughts more on the killer, to see if she can give us any kind of physical description, something that might help us to track him down."

"I know you're right, Sherlock, but I'm worried about her. I'm not sure how strong she is."

"I too have thought of that, but we don't have any other choice. I know that she is very frightened of losing control, and, she is irrationally wracked with guilt, because she somehow feels that she is doing the killing, or at least is convinced that she should be able to stop it somehow, but can't. She feels responsible, and that she has a duty to try to stop him before he does it again."

Watson nodded.

He had got the same impression.

"However, despite her fear, she understands the importance of her role in this. She is very brave and very tenacious. She won't give up."

Watson gave Holmes a meaningful look now.

"I will be gentle with her, I promise, but we need her insight, John. You will be here to protect her if I overstep the mark," Holmes gave Watson a wry smile now.

"I would give her a couple of days, Sherlock, time for her to get her equilibrium back and see if anything else develops, and give yourself time to get some rest too."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

"I mean it. I'm worried about you too, Sherlock. I know what you're like when you've got the scent, and you're really not up to gallivanting around the country right now."

He also knew that Holmes wasn't telling him the whole truth about he was really feeling, trying concealing how bad the pain was, and soldiering on, but it was clear for Watson to see, written all over his pale, pinched face.

The headache was getting worse.

"That is where you and the computer come in, my friend. We've done it before; we can do so again, if necessary."

The look on Holmes face told Watson that he did not find the thought very agreeable, he really needed to be there, in the thick of things, but, he also realized that he had no choice in the matter.

Watson was right.

He wasn't up to it, physically, but he could still put his eyes and his mind to good use.

He didn't need to be there, when John was familiar with what he needed to know about any crime scene or body that might be discovered.

_Thank God for modern technology._

"You know, John, Cassia has given us something to be going on with, but what we really need, what would really help to break this case is a body, with lots of lovely physical evidence."

Watson knew that Holmes was right, but had the horrible feeling that that wasn't going to happen any time soon, although, a nagging little voice in the back of his head wanted to tell Holmes that he should be careful what he wished for, because it might just come true.


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter Twenty.**_

The next day passed quietly and without incident, Holmes staying in the flat, passing the time equally between thinking and trawling the internet, pursuing his theory and finally dismissing each possible line of enquiry, and resting as Watson had insisted that he do.

Mrs Hudson looked in on him regularly throughout the day, offering to make him something to eat at the pre-requisite times, dabbing at her eyes with a wrinkled hanky and sniffing constantly as she avoided looking directly at Sherlock, trying to hide her fear and her grief, then disappearing back down the stairs to indulge in the tears that never seemed to be very far away.

Holmes had been relieved.

He couldn't deal with her emotions at the moment.

He had too much on his mind.

Holmes was frustrated at first, because it didn't appear to be as simple as he had first thought.

Gypsys, Romanys and New Age Travellers still tended to move around in the winter months, mainly because locals got tired of the noise, mess, rowdy children and the increase in drunkeness and petty crime associated with their arrival in the area, and forced the police and local authorities to move them on.

Dead end number one, but at least it narrowed down the field a little.

Environmental protestors tended to set up camp and not move on until they were moved on by the police or they won their battle and moved on to the next crusade.

Dead end number two.

That still left travelling fairs, carnivals and circuses.

However, Holmes had not realized just how many of these there still were all around the country, travelling from county to county in the summer months, staying barely longer than a couple of days, plying their trade then moving on, and those were the ones operating legally.

Heaven knows how many more were fly-by-nights, unregistered and operating unsafe equipment.

There was also no word from Cassia Ingram.

Holmes had tried to reach out to her by text, using the mobile phone number on the business card that she had given to him, but she had failed to respond.

He took it as a good sign, although he was a little disappointed.

He assumed that there had been no more dreams or visions, and that hopefully that meant that the poor woman was gaining a little respite from the onslaught of violent and traumatic images.

He wished her more pleasant dreams.

Still, it didn't help him much.

During this quiet period, Watson had returned to his practice, spending his day seeing patients, catching up on paperwork and reading medical reports and test results, and trying to arrange for a Locum to cover the time that he was going to need to take to supervise Holmes recovery from the surgery and his period of convalescence.

As always, the two men kept in touch by telephone, mainly texting each other, but Watson had stopped by that evening to check on Holmes, to satisfy himself that he was doing as he was told. That he was eating, sleeping and conserving his strength and managing his pain and other symptoms, and they talked about Holmes investigations on the internet, and the more serious issue of his wishes should something go terribly wrong during the surgery.

Late in the day, Holmes had received word from Sir Frederick Penrose Gill that they had a slot at the hospital for him for the next day, for the MRI scan, and that evening, when he heard the news, Watson had offered to go with him.

However, Holmes had brushed him off, sarcastically declaring that he was more than capable of going alone, and although Watson had been a little hurt, he had understood his friend's need to maintain his independence and control over his own life and actions for as long as he possibly could.

So, the following morning, Holmes rose early, dressing slowly and carefully, ate nothing but a handful of pain pills and sipped a cup of milky tea, then he took a cab to the hospital.

The staff were all very friendly and polite, trying to put him at his ease while he endured their sympathetic looks and the claustrophobic feeling of lying still, nauseous and confined in the narrow metal tube, the thrumming and banging of the scanner driving him crazy and making his headache worse.

By the time it was over, Holmes was exhausted and his head felt like it was going to explode.

All he wanted to do was return to Baker Street and shut out the world.

He felt miserable and frustrated and knew that he would be poor company, even for himself.

However, his plans were thwarted when, arriving in a cab at 221B, after paying the driver, relieved to be home at last, striding toward his front door and blessed sanctuary, Holmes was startled to find Cassia Ingram rushing out of the cafe next door, heading straight for him, her eyes wild, voice high pitched, words tumbling uncontrollably and incoherently from her lips as she grabbed his hand.

She was hysterical, clawing at him and sobbing inconsolably, and Holmes could not understand a word that she was saying.

He really wasn't in the mood for this, but, he quickly realized that something significant must have happened, something that was threatening to tip Cassia Ingram over the edge of reason and sanity.

For one thing, she appeared to still be in her night attire, with just a light weight raincoat pulled over a pair of flimsy pink pyjama bottoms and a thin red T-shirt, and a pair of fluffy pink mule slippers on her feet.

Aware of how she looked, and the scene that she was causing and what it must look like to the neighbours, Holmes tried to calm her with soothing words, hushing her as he shepherded her along with him to the door, fishing out his key and slotting it into the lock, but Cassia Ingram was so hysterical she kept pulling at his arm, screaming at him, and the only words he could really make out were that he had to help her.

This could not go on.

Frustrated and impatient, Holmes knew that he had to do something, so, taking matters into his own hands, he quickly raised his hand and slapped her, hard, across the cheek.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's the only way..." He spoke in soft tones, placing his hands on both of her shoulders, as a suddenly stunned Cassia Ingram grew silent, swaying slightly, blinking rapidly, a look of complete shock on her face, but Holmes was grateful that she was quiet at last.

Holmes quickly grabbed her hand, opened the front door of 221B and hastily pulled Cassia Ingram inside behind him, closing the door to the street with his foot as he tried to usher Cassia toward the stairs.

In complete contrast to her emotional melt down on the street, Cassia Ingram was now almost catatonic, and thankfully, compliant, as she allowed Holmes to guide her up the stairs ahead of him, and up to his flat, his hand in the small of her back encouraging her upward.

Her sudden complete lack of emotion was even more disturbing to Holmes than her outburst on the street had been, and he suddenly realized that she was ill, and that this was something that he could not deal with and that he was going to need help.

She was standing in the middle of his living room, her face white, save for the spot of colour blooming on her cheek where he had slapped her, her expression blank, eyes still wide and wild, startled, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face, and her whole body was swaying and shaking alarmingly.

"Cass, come and sit down and I'll fetch you some brandy," Holmes offered.

He could use one himself, he realized, shocked by her sudden appearance and her outburst downstairs and still feeling wretched after his trip to the hospital.

He wanted to help her to a chair, but suddenly, some instinct was telling him not to touch her, that she might not react well.

"Cass? Did you hear me?"

Holmes began to wonder if the poor woman even knew where she was, who _he_ was, and feared that he was watching some kind of mental breakdown.

His immediate instinct was to call Watson.

He would know what to do.

He reached into his jacket pocket but before he could pull out his phone, Cassia Ingram finally spoke.

Her voice was so low, so small, and distant, Holmes could barely hear her, but then she began to repeat the words, over and over and over again, her voice getting louder and higher in pitch.

"He did it again. He _did it again_. _He did it again_!"

Now Holmes understood.

"He's killed again?"

Cassia finally seemed to snap out of her catatonia, her eyes seeking Holmes out as she suddenly seeming to realize where she was, and she nodded.

"Another child?"

"A boy."

"Tell me, Cass. Tell me what you saw, what you felt, but this time I want you to concentrate on _him_, the killer," Holmes spoke quickly, excitedly, his mind racing as he tried to sort out the information that he needed and how to probe Cassia to get at that information without tipping her back into hysteria.

"Focus on his physical being, his build. Is he tall, or short, fat or thin, young or old, does he have a limp, or a scar, or some other identifying mark. Is he right handed or left? Does he ..."

"_No!"_ Cassia shrieked, stopping Holmes in mid flow. _"No!"_ she moved forward and was practically screaming the word in his face now, forcing Holmes to step back from her.

"No ..." she sobbed brokenly, her head bowing now, her loose, un-brushed hair falling around her face like a curtain.

"You _must_!" Holmes insisted, closing the gap between them once more and seizing her roughly by the upper arms, forcing her to look up at him once more. "You must Cass, while it is all still fresh in your mind."

"_No, no, no_ ..." she sobbed forlornly. "I can't. Don't ask me, please, Sherlock. I can't ..."

"Cass, I know it is difficult for you, but you _must_. I have to know."

He tightened his fingers around the muscles of her upper arms, hoping that physical discomfort would somehow bring her to her senses.

"No, please ..."

"_Cass!"_

This time he shook her, hating himself for being so rough with her, whilst realizing at the same time that it was probably the only way he was going to get any sense out of her.

"No ... You don't understand, Sherlock ..."

She looked straight up into his pale blue/grey eyes now, her own over flowing with uncontrollable tears, but her voice, although shaky, was calm and low and throaty.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I almost choked my friend to death!"

The confession was wrung out of her on a convulsive sob.

"I saw it, all of it! I was watching _him. _He had his hands around the boy's throat, and then they were _my_ hands! _I _had _my_ hands around his throat ..." she dragged in a ragged breath. "And when it was over, when I finally came to my senses, I had _my _hands around Maddie's throat," she spoke in a terrified, breathy voice now and began to rock backwards and forwards as Holmes took in what she was telling him.

"_I_ was _him_! I could have _killed_ her, Sherlock! _I could have killed her!_ You've got to stop him ... Dear God, Sherlock, stop _me_, before _I_ kill someone too ..."

Her breath finally ran out and suddenly, the life seemed to drain out of her before his eyes, her eyes rolling back into her head and she fainted dead away in his arms.

Reacting quickly, Holmes scooped Cassia Ingram up into his arms and managed to carry her the short distance to the couch, before his wobbly legs and quivering arms gave out on him.

He laid her down gently and positioned a cushion under head.

Holmes then fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and dialled Watson's number, calmly explaining that he needed him to come immediately and ended the call abruptly before Watson could ask any questions.

Holmes knew that the tone of his voice and his brusque manner would worry Watson and he would jump to all sorts of conclusions. Wrong conclusions, Holmes knew, but they would get him here quickly, and that was all that Holmes cared about at that moment.

Cassia Ingram was in need of medical assistance and Holmes did not have a clue what to do to help her.

He did know that something had to be done for her quickly, or there was a very real risk that she would descend into hysterical madness.

After he ended the call, Holmes went to the kitchen, found the brandy hidden away at the back of a cupboard and poured himself a small shot to calm his nerves, aware in the back of his mind as he did so that he was still taking strong pain medication, yet still horrified and shaken by what he had witnessed, and the significance of what Cassia had told him and his own physical deterioration.

Somehow, the killer was linked to Cassia Ingram, able to influence her reactions and even make her copy what he was doing.

Her worst fears realized.

Poor woman.

The killer could somehow control her through her visions.

_But how could that be?_

_Did it really matter?_

_It could not be good._

_Not good at all._

Yet ...

Even as he knocked back the shot of brandy in one gulp, and felt it burn its way down to his empty stomach, Sherlock Holmes was already trying to find a way to turn this new development to their advantage.


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter Twenty One.**_

John Watson hurriedly paid the cab driver, practically throwing the money through the open window at the poor man, and then hurried up to the front door of 221B Baker Street, door key in his shaking fingers, medical bag banging painfully against his leg, his chest tight and his heart knocking alarmingly against his ribs.

_Oh God, Sherlock, why don't you ever listen to reason!_

Fear for his friend had gripped Watson since the moment the call had ended so abruptly, and he had been forced to end a consultation with a patient.

There had been something in Holmes voice, in those tight, clipped, commanding tones that had instantly touched a chord in him and immediately put him right back in the worst moment of his life, standing on the street near Bart's Hospital, heart exploding out of his chest as he watched in horror as Sherlock had stood on the roof and calmly said 'Goodbye, John,", his voice emotionless and cold, and then he had taken that last step over the edge.

All Watson had wanted to do was to get over to Baker Street as quickly as he could, expecting to find his friend ...

Well, in truth, he did not know _what _he expected to find at Baker Street, except that some ingrained instinct was telling him that it could not be good.

_Oh God, don't let me too late..._

He fumbled with his key in the lock, silently cursing his shaking fingers, never more relieved that he had decided not to give the thing back to Holmes, and in his hurry, almost fell over the threshold as he got himself tangled up between the door frame and his medical bag.

Wedged stuck for a moment, he finally managed to free himself, falling into the hallway, but as he caught himself and pulled himself together, he came to an abrupt halt half way down the hallway, as he was confronted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting at the bottom of the uncarpeted stairs, shoulders hunched, his head bowed and buried in his hands.

"Geez, Sherlock! What happened?"

Watson was striding toward Holmes now, his eyes roaming over his friend's hunched body seeking out any sign of injury.

A quick, cursory inspection revealed nothing obvious, but Holmes was still holding his head in his hands.

"Did you fall down the stairs?" He demanded as he stopped before Holmes and dropped his medical bag on the ground beside the bottom step of the stairs. "Did you lose consciousness?"

Watson's tone was all businesslike now, his voice filled with professional concern for his patient, as he squatted down in front of Holmes.

"Let me see, Sherlock, let me see ..." He coaxed, fearing that he would find his friend's face covered in blood, although there were no telltale signs on Holmes tight fitting pristine white shirt.

Holmes responded by lowering his hands and finally raising his head, and Watson, his hand automatically reaching out for Holmes wrist to take his pulse, his eyes still seeking out any sign of injury, was both relieved and surprised by what he saw.

No blood.

No obvious sign of injury.

_Thank God!_

However, Holmes looked pale, anxious and tense, his pinched features all the evidence that Watson needed to realize that he must be in considerable pain.

"It's alright, John," Holmes assured in his usual low baritone, but there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

He tried to pull his hand away from Watson, but the doctor clung on, determined to take his pulse.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me what happened? Did you black out again?"

"John, I'm fine," Holmes reiterated.

"Will you _shut up_! Just shut up! Stop putting a brave face on things, and let me do my damn job!"

"John, I am not your patient."

"Yes, you are, remember? You put me in charge of your health and well being for the duration, so I took the liberty of having you registered with my practice as a temporary patient," he explained hurriedly. "Now hold bloody still!"

"John, truly, _I_ am _not _your patient."

"You stubborn sod, why do you always have to fight me..."

"_Watson!"_

Holmes snatched his hand away now, and there was something harsh in his voice that caused Watson to stop and take a closer look at his friend.

"I must apologize for the manner of my phone call, John. I knew what you would think, and I apologize sincerely for presuming on our friendship like this, but I really didn't know what else to do."

"You didn't fall down the stairs?"

Holmes shook his head, tentatively.

"You didn't pass out?"

Again Holmes shook his head, very carefully, his eyes narrowing as a sharp jag of pain exploded behind his eyes and he began to see stars.

"_Sherlock_!"

Watson finally began to realize that he had been summoned on a wild goose chase, and his attitude swiftly changed from concern to fury.

He rose to his full height now and glared up at Holmes.

"You scared the living crap out of me!" He railed angrily. "You bloody idiot! You had me thinking ..."

"I know."

"Well, you had me thinking all kinds of dreadful things!" Watson continued, and then paused to stare in utter contempt at his friend. "You _know_!"

"Yes, John."

"I was in the middle of a ruddy consultation with a patient!"

Watson was getting angrier by the second, but Holmes was pretty sure that it was a reasonable reaction to his supposed 'crying wolf', except that that was not what it had been at all.

"You thoughtless, reckless, selfish, prat! What the hell! Did you get me round here because your ruddy toenails need trimming!"

"I would have called a podiatrist for that," Holmes responded dryly now.

"You git! You complete idiot..."

"John, can we do this later, please?"

Holmes emitted a soft sigh, hanging his head briefly before looking up once more.

"I will be more than happy to listen to you call me all the names under the sun that you can think of ..."

"You wanker! For God's sake, Sherlock, you cannot keep doing this to me!"

"John, _shut up_! Just shut up and listen!" Holmes snapped out now, growing impatient with his friend.

"_I_ _am not your patient._"

Holmes spoke very slowly, deliberately and precisely, as though he were talking to a complete idiot.

Watson, drawing in another deep breath to continue his tirade, finally heard what Sherlock was saying, and as the words took hold in his brain, he suddenly had another sense of fear and dread.

"Then who is? Mrs Hudson?"

"No, John. As far as I am aware, Mrs Hudson is fine. She's round at Mrs Turners and they are both probably engrossed in their lunch time soap opera," Holmes intoned dryly, relieved that he finally had Watson's full attention.

"Then I don't understand, Sherlock. Who the hell am I here to see?" Watson's eyes narrowed suspiciously now and he felt like he had walked slap bang right into the middle of the Twilight Zone.

"Cassia Ingram."

There it was again, Watson realized.

The real concern and anxiety in Holmes voice and in his pinched features, and now there was just the tiniest hint of regret in his eyes, that he had caused his friend to be so anxious and worried over his health.

A silent apology.

_Call me Mr Repentant._

It didn't really suit Holmes.

Watson much preferred the bullish, belligerent, recalcitrant Holmes.

Just like his attempts at humour and levity, it was an ill fitting suit of clothes on Holmes, and it grated on Watson's nerves.

He much preferred the blunt openness his friend usually practiced. It was easier to deal with, and didn't leave him wondering if Sherlock was trying to pull a fast one.

"Cass?" Watson clarified.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"She was waiting for me when I returned from the hospital appointment," Holmes began in even tones, recalling the scene on the street a little earlier.

"She was hysterical, beside herself, John. Ranting and screaming. I couldn't understand what she was saying, she was so incoherent."

He explained patiently, and then paused to draw in a long, ragged breath.

Suddenly Holmes looked a little shame faced, and Watson's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked at his friend.

_Oh God ..._

"I really had no choice..."

"What the hell did you do to her, Sherlock?" Watson demanded gruffly.

"I slapped her. Only once," Holmes clarified quickly. "Across the face. Just to calm her down."

"And did it work?" Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

For a man who usually shied away from any kind of physical contact with another human being, Holmes had suddenly become very tactile where Cassia Ingram was concerned.

Tenderness was one thing.

Violence, something completely different.

Still, if the woman was hysterical, it probably was the only thing Holmes could have done to snap her out of it long enough to get her off the street, Watson reasoned silently.

He did look genuinely remorseful and apologetic.

_Don't look at me like that, Sherlock! I'm not the one who could sue you for assault!_

"Oh yes, and then some."

Holmes' tone was wry as he heaved a deep sigh now and hung his head briefly.

"The change was shocking and almost instantaneous. One minute she was a wild, raving lunatic, the next she was practically catatonic."

"So what did you do then?"

"Naturally I got her inside as quickly as I could and up to the flat. I thought she was in shock. I know I was," he admitted wryly. "So I offered to get her a brandy. She was calm, John. _Too _calm. It was very unsettling to see," Holmes explained in low tones, looking up at Watson once more, and it was clear to see that he had genuinely been affected by what he had seen.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm no shrink. If she needs psychiatric help ..."

"She had another dream or vision; I'm not quite sure which. She didn't elaborate." Holmes explained quickly.

"Oh God ..."

"It was bad, John. Very bad."

Holmes suddenly gave Watson a pointed look, telling his friend silently that that had to be about the biggest understatement of the Century.

Watson could only imagine what it must have been like.

Poor Sherlock.

This case really was throwing everything at him, and just at a time when he wasn't really able to deal with it, physically or emotionally.

"What did she tell you?"

"I think the killer has a psychic link with Cass."

This drew a frown from Watson.

"She told me that whilst experiencing that vision, or dream, she felt as though she was him, the killer," Holmes explained. "She told me that he had his hands around a little boy's throat, and that she _felt_ they were _her_ hands around the child's throat."

"Oh hell ..."

"Its worse, John."

Again Watson frowned.

"It seems that Cass has been staying with a friend, and that she was not alone while she had this vision or dream. Her friend must have come to her assistance. When she finally regained her senses, Cassia discovered that she had her hands around her friend's throat."

"Holy crap!" Watson gasped.

"She was choking her. She could have killed her friend, John, and now she's genuinely terrified that he can control her, could even make her commit his crimes with him, under his influence in her visions and dreams."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Is that even possible?" Watson asked incredulously.

"How should I know?" Holmes gave Watson a pained look. "But, it stands to reason that if she can link to him psychically and see what he is doing, and more importantly _feel_ what he is doing, then it is possible that it could also work in reverse," he pondered, his hand absently rising now to knead at his brow.

His head felt like it was caught in a vice, the pressure relentless.

"And we know that her mental strength and whatever strengths and protections she has learned to use to control her psychic gift are already weakened, so perhaps that makes Cassia even more susceptible."

It sounded logical coming from Sherlock.

"What happened then?"

"She fainted."

"So where the hell is she now?" Watson demanded, his eyes growing wide in disbelief that his friend could be sitting there, calmly talking to him, while Cassia Ingram needed medial assistance.

"Upstairs. I laid her down on the couch and then called you."

"Why the hell didn't you say so sooner, you twit!"

Watson scooped up his medical bag and roughly put his hand on Holmes shoulder to move him out of the way so that he could get past.

"Is she still unconscious?" He demanded as he shoved his way on to the stairs, clouting Sherlock in the shoulder with his medical bag on the way.

"Ouch! Do please be careful!" Holmes exclaimed, swiftly moving his head out of the way before Watson took it clean off his shoulders in his haste.

"Then shift out of the damned way, Sherlock, or I might just be tempted to knock some sense into that moronic head of yours and save Surgeon Witty the ruddy trouble!" Watson growled. "Cass?"

"She's awake. She came too after about five minutes. She seems alright, but very quiet still. Withdrawn. She wouldn't talk to me."

"I don't blame her. I often don't want to talk to you!" Watson muttered darkly as he fought his way loose, careful to avoid hitting Holmes again with his medical bag, and then took the stairs two at a time.

Suitably chastised, Holmes rose carefully, wobbling slightly as he did so, leaning heavily against the wall for a moment as stars exploded before of his eyes, and then, when the world righted its self at last and the bright lights began to fade, he followed Watson up the stairs and walked slowly and somewhat shakily into the living room, to find Cassia Ingram where he had left her, laying on the couch, curled up in the foetal position, her back to them, a tight ball of abject misery.

Feeling helpless and surplus to requirements, the energy suddenly draining from him and his head feeling as though it were about to split open, Holmes decided that retreat was the better part of valour and withdrew to the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea, should it be required, and it was at least something to do with his hands and take his mind off the pain, whilst Watson coaxed Cassia Ingram to allow him to do a rudimentary physical examination.

He did not want Watson to see how wretched he was really feeling, and was hoping that a few minutes alone in the kitchen to compose himself would give him a chance to recover his balance and regain his strength.

However, even John could not get Cassia to speak, other than to provide monosyllabic answers to questions about how she was feeling and what had happened before she fainted, as he took her pulse and blood pressure and temperature.

It was as though she had withdrawn deep into herself, and Holmes suspected that it was a form of self preservation, still far too traumatized by her dream or vision and her subsequent actions to even contemplate revisiting the images.

However, when Watson declared that she was exhausted and offered to give her a mild sedative she flatly refused.

Holmes was standing in the kitchen doorway where he had been silently watching proceedings, about to ask who wanted something to drink, discreetly hanging on to the door frame because he felt dizzy and off balance, and he caught the look of utter horror on Cassia's face as she recoiled away from Watson and tried to make herself as small as she possibly could be on the couch.

Holmes understood immediately.

She was terrified to go to sleep.

While she was awake, she could fight to keep control, although even that was becoming more and more difficult, but asleep, she had no control at all.

So it had been a dream, then, he deduced, not a vision.

With his heart seeming to beat irregularly in his chest, Holmes drew in a slow, steadying breath and waited for the world to stop spinning, as Watson relented and began packing away his paraphernalia back into his medical bag.

Sherlock suddenly had a eureka moment.

He knew that he was running the risk of being called the cruellest so and so in the world, but he immediately saw how things could be used to their advantage.

Sometimes it was necessary to be cruel to be kind.

He really didn't care what they thought of him.

Time was running out, for both of them, and, for the children too.

No point denying it.

Something had to be done, and it didn't matter to Holmes that they thought him cold hearted, callous and unfeeling.

Perhaps, if it worked, they would thank him in the long run.

If not.

_C'est la vie, Grand-mere!_

"Don't argue with the doctor, Cass. He's made a special journey to come and see you. The least that you can do is take his advice."

Feeling less dizzy and his heart beating more regularly, Holmes spoke at last, in his usual calm baritone, and both Watson and Cassia Ingram, unaware that he had been there for some time, looked around to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.

"No," Cassia's voice was hoarse from weeping and ranting, but there was no mistaking the determination there, as well as fear. "I'm fine now. Thank you for your kindness, gentlemen, but I will be going on my way."

"I don't think that that is wise," Holmes intoned, moving slowly and cautiously into the room now, keeping the furniture within easy reach should he feel that he was suddenly going to lose his balance.

"John? Do you concur?"

"Cass knows my medical opinion," Watson sighed softly. "However, as I have recently been told, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, Sherlock. She wouldn't be the first patient I have had who ignored my sound medical advice."

He gave Holmes a very pointed look.

_Pot. Kettle. Black._

"Where would you go?"

Holmes turned his attention to Cassia Ingram, ignoring Watson's dig as he continued to walk carefully toward the couch.

"Back to your friend?"

"No."

Again there was determination in her voice, and Holmes found himself silently applauding her for her need not to place her friend in danger once more.

He could empathise.

He knew what that felt like.

"Then stay here," Holmes offered. "You can sleep on the couch, or I will gladly give up my bed, there's even a spare room upstairs, Watson's old digs," he went on. "You would be most welcome."

"No!" She answered sharply.

"I really don't think you should be out there, on your own."

"And I really don't think I'm fit company for anyone."

Holmes understood what she meant.

She was worried about what she might do to him too.

"You would be perfectly safe," Holmes assured, reaching the couch, where he slowly hunkered down so that he was face to face with Cassia Ingram, using his right hand to steady himself against the seat cushions. "And so would I."

This drew a frown from Watson, who as usual, was about three paces behind the rest of the conversation.

_Stupid man, did he really think the poor woman was in any fit condition to try jumping his bones, even if she had the inclination!_

_Egotistical tosser!_

"You don't _know_ that, Sherlock," Cassia whimpered softly and there was a distinct quiver in her voice now. "_I _don't know that."

"Yes I do. Your friends and mine on the other side seem to have appointed you as my guardian angel. I don't think they would allow anything to happen to me," he smiled reassuringly.

Watson finally realized where Cassia and Holmes were coming from, and her fear that she would lose control again and might harm Holmes, but when he turned his head to regard his friend, he suddenly saw something ominous in Holmes' cold, reptilian like eyes and he could not help thinking that there was more than kindness and compassion in Holmes offer to allow Cassia to stay at 221B.

"You need your rest and to regain your strength."

_What are you up to, you sly bugger?_

"If you're at all worried, I am sure that John would be prepared to stay, as a chaperone, not that you would need one," Holmes smiled shyly.

"But you might," Cass allowed herself a weak smile now, although they both knew that it wasn't his virtue that she was talking about.

"Forgive me?" Holmes spoke softly and reached out with his hand, stopping shy of actually touching the spot on her face where he had slapped her.

Cassia nodded gently.

"You had no choice."

"Thank you."

He moved his hand to close the gap and cupped her chin, gently, stroking her cheek lightly with his thumb, and then slowly withdrew his hand.

It was probably the most tender gesture Watson had ever seen his friend use.

It instantly set off alarm bells.

Holmes was definitely up to something.

_Mr Sensitive! I don't think so!_

_Mr Touchy Feely! _

_No way._

_Who is this man and what the hell has he done with the real Sherlock Holmes!_ Watson found himself thinking sarcastically.

"Stay. Together, the three of us can deal with anything adverse that might happen. You have my word on that, Cass. Stay, please."

"Thank you," Cassia acquiesced, rather more quickly than Watson might have thought, no doubt swayed by Holmes sweetness and light act, the fight suddenly gone out of her, and obviously wanting and needing to trust someone because she was almost at the end of her rope with this business and wanted an end to it.

It was, after all, why she had sought Holmes out.

He was the only person willing to listen to her and take her seriously.

She let out a long, exhausted sigh and relaxed back against the couch, closing her eyes wearily now.

Watson glared at Holmes.

He was definitely cooking something up.

He'd never been so saccharine sweet in his life, but Watson saw through him.

"Fine, that seems to be all arranged then."

Holmes stood up, rather unsteadily, but tried to hide the slight wobble as his legs suddenly felt like water beneath him, by moving toward the table where he leaned casually against the back of a chair for a moment.

"Kettle's just boiled."

Holmes pushed off from the chair and began to walk back toward the kitchen, his back ramrod straight, each step measured as he fought to keep his balance, bursts of light erupting in front of his eyes as the pain in his head crashed in waves against the inside of his skull.

"Anyone for tea?"

He spoke without turning around, fearful that Watson would see the pain, fear, anxiety and distress in his face.

_Get a grip, man. _

_You don't have time for this!_

_You still have work to do._

He just wanted to seek the sanctuary of the kitchen and a moment to get his equilibrium back.

And to gobble down a fistful of pain pills.

Watson glowered at Holmes receding back.

"Well..." He let out a hearty sigh of frustration and exasperation. "I'd better call my wife and let her know I won't be home tonight," he spoke in a tight voice, to no-one in particular.

_And won't that be fun._

He couldn't wait for _that _conversation.

Mary had theatre tickets for one of the hottest shows in town and had been excited about the prospect of going for weeks, and whilst she understood his friendship and loyalty to his friend, his concern and his need to check on Holmes on the way home, she still expected him to escort her to the theatre and then on to dinner afterwards.

_I see a long stint on a lumpy sofa in a certain doctor's future, I hope it's worth it, Sherlock, I really hope it's worth it._

_Ah the joys of wedded bliss._


	22. Chapter 22

_**Chapter Twenty Two.**_

"What the hell are you playing at?" Watson hissed in a low voice as he joined Holmes in the kitchen after concluding his phone call to his extremely annoyed wife.

Mary was usually very sweet natured, tolerant and understanding, and while he had got the impression that she was trying to be the patient, indulgent, charitable wife, he could tell from her voice that she was disappointed, and really angry and frustrated with him.

He felt like a louse for letting her down, and had told her so, but it hadn't helped.

He was still going to let her down, and they both knew it.

However, Watson was aware that there was nothing in the marriage vows that said she had to be happy about it.

_You don't physically have to have a dog house, to be _in_ the dog house!_

At least there hadn't been any tears.

Watson had just about managed to restrain himself.

In the end Mary had told him not to worry, that he had to do what he needed to do and that she would try to find someone else to go with, after all it would be a shame to waste the ticket, after waiting so long for the unwanted returns to come back to the box office, and spending so much money on them, although at this late stage, that was doubtful.

As Watson had marched into the kitchen, Holmes had had his back to him, leaning against the kitchen counter, head bowed, seemingly engrossed in counting the sugar cubes in the bowl on the tray of tea things before him, waiting for the kettle to come back up to the boil.

_Innocence personified! _

_Not._

As he waited for Holmes to acknowledge him, Watson suddenly recalled the conversation that he had had with Sherlock after Cassia Ingram's last visit, when she had first confided that she could feel what the killer felt, and about needing to get her back here pronto, his promise to be gentle with her, and Holmes determination that he needed her insight if they were going to make progress with the case.

_Ah, the penny finally drops!_

"You bastard. You _want_ her to dream. You want that poor woman to go through that misery and terror, just so you can grill her and try to get the information you need about the bloody killer!"

Watson was incensed now.

"Bravo."

Holmes, who did not move, also kept his voice low, not wanting Cassia Ingram to overhear their conversation.

However, at that moment he could hear her soft voice coming from the living room and deduced that she was calling her friend to see how she was, to apologize for her actions and to reassure her friend that she was alright.

"_You ..._"

"Yes, yes, I know all that, John," Holmes cut him off in mid sentence, still not turning around to face his friend. "But it really is the only way to move forward. The sooner we find this man and put a stop to him, the sooner this stops for Cass too," Holmes insisted in a whisper, as the kettle finished boiling.

"It's infinitely better for her to do this under controlled conditions, and under the supervision of a doctor, don't you think?" He reasoned. "She's got to fall asleep sooner or later. Her body is starving for rest. Isn't it better that she does so here, amongst friends, with people who understand and who might just be able to help her to control her dreams in a direction that could be helpful!"

"You arrogant arse... You think you might be able to control someone else's dreams? Christ, Sherlock, the woman can't even control her own dreams!"

"Alright, _control_ is perhaps too strong a word. Guide would be a better description. If I can guide her, make suggestions about keeping her emotions in check and where to look and what to look for..."

_Oh... _

_Well, if you put it like that..._

"I am not a bully, as you are thinking, nor am I completely without feelings or understanding, John, but time is of the essence here, and it is something that neither of us has much of. Cass can't take any more of this, physically or emotionally, and I am keenly aware of the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head, my surgery date, looming large before me. We may never get a better opportunity," Holmes added as he very carefully lifted the kettle from its base and poured boiling water in to the teapot, his hand suddenly shaking, blinking rapidly because his vision was unusually blurred.

"It's a giant leap, Sherlock, assuming that while she is asleep, she'll be even be able to hear you, much less do as you suggest, without actually breaking the dream and waking up."

"We have to chance it, John. Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but it has to be done, and I think Cass knows it too."

"Now _you're_ a ruddy mind reader!" Watson muttered darkly, but he couldn't think of a suitable argument, after all, she had consented to stay, so she must be aware on some level of what Holmes was anticipating might happen, and was, therefore, prepared to go along with it.

"Am I the only one who's crystal ball has a ruddy great crack in it?" He added sarcastically, not wanting to let Holmes off the hook quite yet.

For his part, Sherlock Holmes was glad that his friend was distracted by his annoyance at him.

It was infinitely better than his sympathy any day of the week.

And Holmes really didn't want him to see him so unsteady.

John was far too good a doctor not to realize that something was drastically wrong.

_This too shall pass. _

He repeated silently to himself.

_This too shall pass._

"How was Mary?"

Holmes decided to change the subject as he stirred the boiling water and tea leaves around, mixing them together in the teapot and then somewhat clumsily put the lid on with a clank of china.

"Pissed off."

Watson was as blunt as ever.

"She has theatre tickets and she's really been looking forward to it," he explained with a sour expression as he glared at Holmes back. "She's had to wait weeks for returns to the box office, and then I go and do this across her. She says it will take more than flowers and chocolates to get on her good side this time."

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

"She wasn't talking about _me_, Sherlock!"

"Ah... Me?"

"Yes, mate, _you_, and I wish you the very best of British luck with that!"

Holmes picked up the kettle, still half full of boiling water to replace it on its base, before he knocked it over, and suddenly felt a weakness and numbness come over his right hand and before he could safely replace the appliance, half its scalding contents were spilling all over the worktop, his left wrist and down his left thigh.

"Damnation!"

Holmes howled as the scorching liquid soaked into the material of his trousers, burning the tender flesh of his inner thigh and the delicate flesh on the inside of his wrist.

"Sherlock!" Watson was at his side in an instant and used both hands to turn Holmes around to face him.

"You idiot! C'mere..."

He pulled Holmes toward the sink where he turned on the cold water tap and stuck Holmes wrist, watch and all under the stream of icy water, then grabbed a cloth and began to dab at the darkening stain on the front of Holmes trousers.

"It's no use, they'll have to come off, Sherlock," and without hesitation he made to pull at Holmes belt.

"That will do, John. I can manage." Sherlock ground out between clenched perfect white teeth, suddenly feeling very sick, dizzy and weak, as he pulled his hand out of the stream of cold water and began to fumble with his belt with fingers that felt as alien to him as a bunch of bananas.

"Yes, I can see how well you manage, you tit, you've scalded your ruddy self," Watson muttered darkly, but decided that discretion was the better part of valour and allowed Holmes to undo the belt himself, even though he seemed to be taking forever, the simple mechanism of the buckle beyond him, or so it seemed, all the time aware that the longer the scalding water was in contact with his skin, the worse the burn would be, and then he dropped his trousers around his knees so that Watson could get a closer look at the deepening patch of angry red skin on his inner thigh.

Watson went to the fridge to see if he could find some ice to wrap in the cloth he was holding, ignoring as he did so, the severed foot sitting in the middle of the middle shelf, Holmes experiments long since lost their ability to shock him, although it did cross his mind to wonder why Holmes also seemed to have a couple of penises in a tupperware container on the top shelf at the back of the fridge.

_Don't even bother going there._

However as he dug out the ice tray he found that there was none, so instead, he went back to the sink with the cloth in hand and soaked it in cold water, wrung it out as best he could then handed it to Holmes.

It would have to do for now.

"Here, klutz, put that on it while I get my bag."

He waited for a moment, watching as Holmes took the cloth in shaky fingers.

The poor young man looked almost white faced and had his teeth clenched in a tight grimace against the stinging pain in his leg and wrist, and Watson fleetingly wondered if Sherlock was going to go into shock.

"You look like hell, by the way."

It was true.

He looked washed out, like a French mime artist, blue/grey eyes squinting, lids blinking rapidly, a pinched, pained expression on his face, body quaking and swaying slightly from side to side, even as he leaned his backside against the sink unit to try to steady himself.

"That is a very accurate description of how I feel, thank you, doctor."

"Stings does it?"

Watson kept any sympathy he might have felt for his friend out of his voice.

"Yes!" Holmes hissed.

"Good."

Watson returned to the living room and found Cassia Ingram just finishing her telephone call.

"What happened? I heard..."

"Slight mishap with the kettle. He'll be fine. Big baby."

"Can I do anything?" She offered softly.

"No. I've got it covered, thanks. Can I get you anything?"

"Well, actually, I think I'd rather like to take a shower, if that's alright? My friend is sending some clothes around in a cab for me. I came out in rather a hurry," she rolled her eyes heavenward and then grinned softly at Watson. "If I could borrow some towels and a clean dressing gown until my things get here?"

"Help yourself. Holmes usually keeps a dressing gown hanging up on the back of the bathroom door, can't swear it will be clean though. But if you're willing to risk it, help yourself. Towels are in the cupboard on the landing next to the bathroom. Soap and shampoo live on the shelf under the shower head. There's toothpaste there too, if you like."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll feel better when I've made myself look respectable."

"You never know, that tea might even be ready by the time you're done."

Watson snatched up his medical bag and headed back toward the kitchen and Sherlock Holmes, while Cassia Ingram rose from the couch, pulling the raincoat more tightly around herself, heading toward the living room door and then the bathroom further down the landing.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Chapter Twenty Three.**_

"_Oh Jesus ..."_

Watson exclaimed as he walked back into the kitchen and found Sherlock Holmes sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the sink unit, head slumped forward, chin on his chest, legs splayed out and stretched out in front of him, trousers round his knees and both arms hanging loosely down by his sides.

He had passed out and slid down the kitchen unit and now looked like some kind of grotesque puppet with its strings cut.

Watson was at his side quickly.

Medical training and instinct kicked in straight away, and he quickly took both of Holmes' ankles and gently pulled the younger man toward him so that he was soon lying flat on his back, yanking off his trousers and casting them aside out of the way, and then, after checking his breathing, quickly and gently manoeuvred him into the recovery position, rolling Holmes over onto his left side, right arm over left, which was secure under his body, head titled slightly back to open his airway and right leg over left, to stop him rolling over flat on his face.

Watson was instantly aware that this was more than just shock at burning himself.

_Sherlock! _

_You steaming great nit, why didn't you say something!_

_Why didn't _I_ see that something was terribly wrong!_

_No, you were too busy feeling sorry for yourself!_

_Too busy being angry with him just for being him!_

Watson silently chastised himself.

"Cass!" Watson yelled out. "Cassia!"

Watson checked the pulse throbbing rapidly in Holmes neck, it was erratic but strong and the younger man was breathing easily.

He was out cold, but his vital signs were good, which was something of a relief.

He needed someone to stay with Sherlock while he called for an ambulance, to make sure that he didn't vomit and choke, or he didn't suddenly stop breathing.

_Dammit, where is everyone when I need them?_

"Cass..."

Holmes suddenly let out a soft, low moan and began to stir.

"Take it easy, Sherlock."

"John?" Holmes, slurring the word groggily, tried to roll over, but Watson stayed him with a gentle hand.

"Stay put. Give yourself a minute. You passed out. I'm going to ring for an ambulance."

"No, no ambulance," Holmes mumbled in a croaky voice.

"Don't argue, Sherlock, this is serious."

"John," Holmes continued to struggle, trying desperately to roll toward Watson. "John, I can't see."

"What?"

"I can't see. Everything is black."

There was a note of panic in Holmes voice now.

"Did you hit your head?"

Watson, full of concern moved to allow Holmes to roll carefully over on to his back and saw immediately that his friend's blue/grey eyes were wide open, pupils fully dilated, moving rapidly as though trying to focus on something, anything, and there was an expression of shock and disbelief on his face. "Sherlock, did you hit your head?"

_Oh Lord ..._

_Was this it?_

_Was this the beginning of a serious deterioration in Holmes condition?_

"John ..."

"Ok, Sherlock, I'm right here," Watson placed his hand on Holmes arm now to reassure him that he was close by. "Try to relax. It might only be temporary," he assured, although he didn't feel confident of that assessment. "And I'm definitely going to ring for that ambulance. Did you hit your head?" he repeated, but could see from his friend's expression that he wasn't going to get much sense out of him, he was too busy waving his hand infront of his useless eyes.

"No... No ambulance, John," Holmes implored. "No, not yet. You said it could temporary."

"And maybe it isn't! Blood hell, Sherlock, will you behave!"

At that moment Cassia Ingram appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry, John, I heard you calling but I was naked, just about to get in the shower..." she spoke breathlessly, looking down as she cinched the belt of one of Holmes' smart dressing gowns around her waist and when she finally looked up she found Watson and Holmes on the kitchen floor.

"Oh hell, what happened?"

"Sherlock fainted," Watson explained. "Would you stay with him while I phone for an ambulance."

"_No!"_

"Sherlock!" Watson and Cassia Ingram spoke in unison.

"Just let me sleep in my own bed. Please."

"Dammit, Sherlock ..."

"Please John. This too shall pass."

Holmes' voice was so low it was barely audible.

"What?" Watson frowned, not sure if he had heard correctly. "Are you delirious? Sherlock? Sherlock!"

"It's alright John," Cassia Ingram stepped in now, walking into the kitchen toward both men. "I think he said its passing."

She gave Watson a meaningful look.

"No, Cass, it's not bloody alright! You know as well as I do what's wrong with him..."

"John, you can always call for an ambulance later if you think he's worse," she reasoned gently.

"John, please ... I'm feeling much better." Holmes slurred, still blinking is unfocused eyes rapidly.

"Sure you are, and I'm Brad bloody Pitt!"

"John, while the two of you are sitting there on the cold floor, bickering, we could get him into his room and lie him down," Cassia Ingram suggested softly.

"Ganging up on me are you?" Watson scowled.

However, he knew that she was right.

"Two on to one, that's not fair, folks," he grumbled, but as he returned his attention back to the younger man, Watson could see that Holmes appeared to be getting some of his strength back now as he pushed against him, struggling as he fought to try to sit upright, and he decided that it would be far less embarrassing for Holmes if he were to exam him in the privacy of his room.

He'd probably be mortified if he knew he was laying there in just his shirt and under pants as it was.

_Never a sheet around when you need one!_

"Alright." Watson acquiesced with a deep sigh.

The doctor in him really needed to take a closer look at Sherlock, to assess his condition, so, as far as he could see, the only thing for it was to get him to his room.

"Cass, would you mind helping me to get him up, please?"

"Sure."

"Thank you, John," Holmes spoke with genuine relief and gratitude.

"Oh, shut up, you plank. This is definitely against my better judgement, and I'm not promising that I won't still call for that ambulance after I've checked you over," Watson told Holmes in no uncertain terms as Cassia Ingram joined him and together they set about getting the still rather unsteady young man to his feet.


	24. Chapter 24

_**Chapter Twenty Four.**_

Between them Cassia and Watson got Holmes on his feet, the younger man leaning more heavily against Watson as they staggered to his bedroom, neither man making any mention of the fact that Holmes was temporarily blind.

However, by the time they got him to his room and sitting down on the bed, from the way he began to move his hands before his face again this time in more intricate patterns, Watson began to suspect that Holmes' vision was starting to return, blurred perhaps, but at least it seemed that he could now see light and shapes and movement.

After Cassia left them to attend to her shower, Watson gave Sherlock a thorough examination and by the time he had finished, Holmes could see properly once more.

When he was sure that Sherlock was safe to be left alone, just for a moment, he returned to the kitchen to retrieve his medical bag and to fetch a bowl of water with antiseptic dissolved in it, and then carefully dressed the burn on Holmes' inner left thigh and after removing his wristwatch, bandaged his left wrist.

"Sherlock..."

"I know what you're going to say, John."

Watson looked up into his friend's pale face and knew from the solemn expression that he found there that Sherlock fully understood this sudden new development in his condition, and its implications.

"You know I'm right. We had a deal, Sherlock. It's time. Don't make me punch you."

He was only half joking, and they both knew it.

"John, we are so close. Just give me one more day. Twenty four more hours, please. For Cassia's sake, as well as mine," Holmes implored softly, his now clear eyes focusing on his friend's anxious countenance.

"Please. My vision is clear, my head is still splitting, but I have my strength back. I'll be better after I have slept for a while."

"You're playing with fire, Sherlock. Yes you can see again, but next time you might not be so damn lucky! Next time you might have a seizure! It's a warning, Sherlock. A warning, that that ruddy time bomb in your head is getting ready to go off."

"One more day, John. Please."

"Sherlock, you can try to con me that you're alright, you may even be able to convince yourself, but there is no reasoning with a brain tumour, my friend, and it will get you in the end."

"I only had the MRI scan today. Sir Roger won't have had time to analyse it yet," Holmes reasoned softly now. "One more day, John, that's all I ask."

"This is not a game, Sherlock. This is your life you're playing with."

"Yes. I know_. My_ life ..."

_Oh hell ..._

_There really was no reasoning with him._

Watson knew that he could keep banging his head against that particular brick wall until the cows came home and the end result would still be the same.

He would only end up in a big pile of cow manure with a headache of his own, and still be no nearer to making his friend see reason.

Watson let out a long, heavy sigh.

_What choice did he have? _

_Really?_

Holmes was determined to see this thing through to the bitter end.

No matter what.

He could argue with him, make life miserable for both of them, and perhaps run the risk of ending up being shut out of Sherlock's life when he needed him most.

Or, he could go along with the silly dimwit and be there to catch him when he fell.

And he would fall.

It was inevitable.

_Oh bugger ..._

"How did it go at the hospital?"

Watson decided to be gracious in defeat and to change the subject, now that he was satisfied that whatever had happened to Sherlock had indeed passed and the blindness had only been temporary.

"I don't know. They never tell the patient anything anyway."

Holmes sank back against his pillow wearily.

"I had the scan, that's it. Surely in this day and age they must be able to design a machine to do the job that isn't so claustrophobic, or damned noisy. I felt every thump and bang in my bones," he grumbled. "Not to mention my skull."

"Did you take your pain meds?"

"Yes."

"When are you due for the next dose?"

"Ah, well, I had a shot of brandy, just to settle my nerves. I'll make do with a cup of tea..."

"Sherlock..."

"John, it has been a somewhat trying and tiresome morning, can we not just drink our tea in peace, like ordinary people?"

_Ordinary! _

_You're having a laugh, Sherlock!_

There was _nothing_ ordinary about Sherlock Holmes, or the way that he lived his life.

Or indeed, the way he chose to die.

"You can use the time to compose a list of insults to hurl at me at a future date."

"Wanker."

Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"I must see about getting you a dictionary and a thesaurus. You're starting to repeat yourself, John," Holmes smiled softly as he lifted his legs up on to the bed, wincing as the burn on his leg throbbed and protested against the movement as the bandaged chaffed against the raw skin, and tried to get comfortable.

"Numb nuts."

"I wish... "Holmes gave a quick, wry look, downward, and suddenly, he realized that he was sans trousers, but he also realized that he was too weak and far too weary to do anything about it now.

Watson went to the kitchen and poured away the tea that Holmes had made from the pot because it was stewed, then made a fresh pot, all the time keeping an ear out for any sign that Sherlock had taken a turn for the worse.

He could hear the shower running and sounds of movement from the bathroom as he worked, and then he loaded a tray and returned to Holmes' bedroom with a small glass of water, a mug of tea and a plate of sweet digestive biscuits, and the bottle of painkillers prescribed by Sir Roger Witty.

"How much brandy, Sherlock?"

"Not much. About one finger's worth," Holmes mumbled sleepily. "Just enough to steady my nerves."

"How long ago?" Watson asked as he read the label on the bottle of pills, trying to decide if it was safe for Holmes to take any with alcohol in his system, weighing up the risks against the positives, and he heard someone knocking at the front door, and then the sound of someone going down the stairs, and realized that Cassia Ingram must have gone to see if it was the taxi bearing her clothing.

"About an hour ago, I suppose." Holmes responded groggily.

"Ok, you can have one of these now. Here..."

He waited for Holmes to open his eyes and helped him to sit up slowly, and then he gave him one painkiller and a small glass of water.

"Take that with the water, then drink your tea, and eat a couple of biscuits. Don't argue. Doctor's orders. You need something in your stomach to counteract the alcohol. I don't suppose you ate much before you went to the hospital."

"Thank you, John. I'm sorry to cause you such trouble."

"Oh, think nothing of it, Sherlock. You haven't seen my bill yet."


	25. Chapter 25

_**Chapter Twenty Five.**_

While Holmes slept, Cassia Ingram, now dressed in a pair of comfortable grey sweat pants and a short sleeved white T-shirt, hair, newly washed and brushed, falling around her shoulders in soft waves, and barefoot, as she sat cross legged on the couch, offered to stay with Sherlock and keep an eye on him, while Watson took some time out to go home and see his wife, briefly, promising to call him immediately if Holmes seemed worse and when he made to protest, weakly, she had reassured him that she was far too wound up and nervous to fall asleep while he was gone.

Watson was grateful for the offer, and in truth, he didn't need much persuading. It would give him time to go back to the practice and make sure the agency had a Locum lined up for him, maybe even help out with evening surgery, but first he wanted to kiss and make up with Mary, and so decided to take Cassia up on her offer, promising to bring food back with him when he returned, and they settled on Chinese takeaway all round.

He was torn between his need to stay with Sherlock, and his desire to mend some fences with Mary.

He also wanted to ring Sir Frederick Penrose Gill to fill him in on this new development in Holmes condition and check what else he might need to look for in the next twenty four hours.

He also wanted to set the wheels in motion, so that the minute the case was over, he could get Holmes straight to the hospital and the specialized care that he needed, and know that they would be ready for him.

After Watson had departed, Cassia tidied away the tea things in the kitchen, and generally made things look a little more respectable, and then, returning to the living room, to fill the time, and take her mind off the ordeal that she surely knew was coming later that night, she retrieved the overnight bag that her friend Maddie had sent around in the cab, along with her handbag, and pulled out a large artists' sketch pad and a set of charcoals and began to draw.

Soon she had a very respectable head and shoulders sketch of John Watson jumping off the page at her, and she smiled softly in satisfaction.

Drawing had always soothed her.

In an ever changing world, her art was the one thing that she could always rely on to relax and calm her and centre her mind.

That truly was a gift, not a curse.

At around four o'clock, Cassia heard someone labouring up the stairs, and looked up from her sketchpad to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, a plastic shopping bag of groceries dangling from her hand.

The older woman was breathless, and a little startled to find Cassia Ingram sitting on Sherlock's couch, but then she remembered that they had met the other day, and she gave the younger woman a shy smile.

"Hello Mrs Hudson, let me give you a hand with that."

Cassia set aside her sketch pad and rose from the couch, following Mrs Hudson into the kitchen.

"Where are the boys?" Mrs Hudson asked, scrutinizing the now clean and tidy kitchen, recognizing it as the work of another woman's hand and turned back to look approvingly at Cassia Ingram as she joined her in the kitchen.

"John had to go out for a while, but Sherlock's here. He's sleeping."

Mrs Hudson suddenly looked crestfallen, as though she had just remembered something terrible and turned away quickly and began to busy herself with the bag of groceries.

"He'll be alright, you know, Mrs Hudson."

Cassia came up behind the older woman and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, stilling her in the process of putting a tin of baked beans in the open cupboard above her.

"Little sod, he's more trouble than he's worth..." Mrs Hudson grumbled, but there was a catch in her voice.

"I know. That's why they don't want him over there yet," Cassia smiled wryly, and this drew a curious, tearful look from Mrs Hudson.

"He'd be too big a pain in the backside. Always arguing. Always so damned sure that he's right all the time, sanctimonious and arrogant and belligerent. They don't want him disturbing their peace just yet, Mrs Hudson. Besides, he still has too much work to do here," Cassia assured and now Mrs Hudson was regarding her with understanding.

"You have the second sight, dear?"

"Something like that."

"I had a cousin once," Mrs Hudson confided as she returned her attention to placing tinned groceries in the cupboard. "She could see, you know, _things,_ that other people couldn't, knew things before anyone else. Some people don't believe in that sort of thing, but I've seen Betty in action, and I know that there is something to it. She was never wrong. Gone now, of course, but I still remember..."

Cassia knew what was coming next, but she didn't mind.

She knew that it would be infinitely less traumatic than what Sherlock Holmes had in store for her later, and it would help to pass the time.

"Do you think you could ...?" Mrs Hudson asked as she turned her head and regarded Cassia somewhat sheepishly.

"I can give it try. Let's have a cuppa and a chat and see what happens, eh?"


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter Twenty Six.**_

Half an hour later, both women were sitting comfortably in Sherlock Holmes living room, chatting as if they had known each other all their lives, and while Cassia shared memories and passed on various messages from Mrs Hudson's dearly departed loved ones, she sketched a portrait of the older woman on her pad.

That was how Sherlock Holmes found the pair an hour and a half later as he wandered, bleary eyed and still half asleep, into his living room, raking fingers through his unruly, sleep touselled hair and yawning loudly.

"Did you forget something, dear?" Mrs Watson was regarding him with a rather amused look on her face, Holmes realized as he moved deeper into the room. "Or do you want me to kiss it better?

"Mmmm?" He frowned, trying to push the fog of sleep from his brain, running his tongue over his dry lips.

"Trousers, dear," Mrs Hudson smirked and Holmes suddenly glanced down at his bare legs.

_Damnation!_

A hot wave of colour suddenly bloomed on his cheeks as Holmes realized that Cassia Ingram was sitting there trying to fight back a grin, and he quickly turned on his heels and marched out of the room, leaving both women chuckling at his receding back.

Holmes returned a few minutes later with his trousers now securely in place, belt fastened, waist band button done up and zipper closed, and a look of disdain on his face, by which time Mrs Hudson had made him a mug of tea.

"Good to see you've stopped snivelling, Mrs Hudson," he growled as he took the mug from her.

"Tuck your shirt in, dear. You look like no-one owns you."

Holmes heaved a deep sigh of exasperation, but set the mug down and ran his hand around the waistband of his trousers securing his shirt tails inside.

Cassia Ingram could not help smiling as she watched the exchange.

This was familiar territory to both of them and they were comfortable with each other.

"What did you do to your leg, dear?"

"Nothing. Isn't it time for the evening paper?"

"Time you learned some manners. You're not too old for a clout round the ears, young man."

"Newspaper, Mrs Hudson."

The older woman ignored Holmes gruff tone and now turned her attention back to Cassia Ingram.

"I had a lovely time, dear. Thank you so much. We'll have to do it again some time."

"Here," Cassia Ingram carefully tore the sheet of paper from her sketch pad and handed the portrait over to the older woman.

"Oh my, that's lovely. You're very good dear. Look, Sherlock. Isn't she clever?"

Holmes barely looked at the charcoal sketch as he sat down in his chair, careful not to pull the material of his trouser leg against the tight, sore burn on his leg, and reached out for his mug of tea.

"See you again, dear. And you, Sherlock, mind your manners. Ladies present, remember," she chastised as she left the two young people together to set out on her evening chores, shuffling along painfully slowly because her hip was giving her jip.

"And what the hell are those bloody willies doing in my fridge! On second thoughts, I really don't think I want to know..."


	27. Chapter 27

_**Chapter Twenty Seven**_

"Feeling better?" Cassia Ingram asked Holmes, closing her sketch pad and propping it up against the side of the couch and then dropped the stick of charcoal back into the old tobacco tin she used as a container.

"Much."

"Liar."

"If you know the answer, why ask the question?" Holmes took a sip of the hot tea. "Where's John?"

"He went out. I think he was hoping to go home for a while and make up to his wife for letting her down tonight. He's bringing Chinese takeaway back with him."

Holmes wrinkled his nose in distaste.

He wasn't hungry.

At least his head no longer felt like it was going to explode.

The pain was still there, in the background, but it was manageable, at least until he could take some more painkillers, which would be any time now.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"A little."

"Good."

"_You_, I hope, did _not_."

"No chance of that. Mrs Hudson and I had a lovely chat."

"Really? I find it hard to understand a word she says most of the time, she waffles so."

"She loves you too, dope."

They sat in strained silence for several minutes, neither knowing what to say to the other, unused to each other's company and struggling for small talk to fill in the silence.

"Do you trust me?" Holmes spoke at last, setting his tea mug aside and regarding Cassia Ingram with now bright, clear eyes, all signs of sleep gone.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"Really? Even though I hit you? I wouldn't blame you for being upset with me. I assure you, I don't usually go in for that sort of thing."

"I told you, Sherlock. I understood. You had no choice. I was making rather a spectacle of myself."

"Mmmm, still, I feel that I should have been able to do something other than resort to physical violence."

"Forget it. I have. I don't plan to sue, if that is what you're worried about."

There then followed another lengthy, uncomfortable silence while Holmes sipped at his tea, and Cassie scrutinized him surreptitiously from beneath her fringe, realizing that he was starting look a little better, more colour in his cheeks and his hands much steadier.

Whatever it was that had overcome him earlier, he was over it now, and getting ready to face the evening ahead.

"Do you trust me, Sherlock?" Cassia asked suddenly, turning the tables on him and drawing Holmes curious cool blue gaze.

"I have invited you to stay in my home as a guest. I am not in the habit of doing that."

Indeed, he could recall only one other time before now, and ironically, that had also been a damsel in distress.

_The_ woman, Irene Adler, and technically he hadn't really invited her in. She had broken in through the bathroom window and gone to sleep on his bed like Goldilocks.

"And I certainly wouldn't have done so if I thought you would abscond with the family silver."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it, clever clogs."

She sat back on the couch and crossed one leg over the other as she regarded Holmes with steady green eyes.

"I think that you have accepted that my gift is genuine, but do you trust me, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Then can I be frank with you?"

"Oh please, do. It seems to be my day for it," he mumbled sarcastically.

"You're really pushing your luck, you know."

Holmes reacted by silently quirking an eyebrow.

"On both counts," she added. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I know exactly why you opened your home to me. It's not completely selfless, but, I do understand. I know that you are hoping that I will dream again, or at the very least have another vision," she told him in a steady, not unattractive contralto voice.

"I understand your motive," she gave a soft sigh now. "And while the prospect scares the hell out of me, I _do _trust you. I know that you and John will stop it before it gets out of hand. But, you should also know that you could be playing with fire, Sherlock."

"You're the second person to tell me that today."

"I know, and John is right. That's the second thing, but I'll come back to that in a minute."

"I can hardly wait."

"Do you always have to be such a smart mouth? Look, Sherlock, what I am trying to say is, I know it has to be done, and that no matter what happens, my mind and my body will be in your hands. That is how much I trust you."

Holmes was impressed, but he remained silent.

She hadn't finished with him yet.

"You need to be taking better care of yourself. You're getting worse, Sherlock, oh you don't want to admit it, not even to yourself, but you are. I see it."

"My aura again?"

"Yes, but I see it in your eyes and in your face, too, Sherlock, and so does John. The pain is worse, your symptoms have changed, and you can't hide it any longer, no matter how much you try. John sees it too, but he's too good a friend to go against your wishes. He understands what it means to you to finish this case. Your last case."

"Is it? My last case?"

"No," she spoke confidently. "No, Sherlock. It's not your last case."

"I'm reassured by your confidence."

"Oh grow up!" she told him impatiently. "You know what I'm trying to say. You are not going to die, but you are in grave danger of losing your sight, speech and ability to reason," she told him bluntly. "The blindness might only have been temporary this time, but if it happens again, there are no guarantees, Sherlock."

She paused for a moment, watching his face closely, and saw a brief flash in his eyes that told her that he knew that she was right, while he also wondered just how she had known that he had lost his vision, briefly, for neither he nor John had alluded to it during their unsteady sojourn to his room earlier.

"But it doesn't have to be that way. There's still time for you to do something about your problem, but you're cutting it awfully fine, and that is why I agreed to stay, to endure your little experiment. I want it over with too, but you _need_ for it to be over so that you can let go and take care of your own health before it's too late and too much damage is done."

"You said I was your guardian angel, and you're right, Sherlock. Your grandmother is getting anxious about you, because she knows that once the damage is done, it cannot be undone, and she knows better than anyone what it will do to you to have to live as the less than perfect man that you are now."

"I'll go along with this hare-brained scheme of yours, but under one condition. You have to make me a promise, and mean it, Sherlock. No matter what happens tonight, whatever the outcome, in the morning, you will allow John to take you to the hospital so that you can have the surgery."

Holmes opened his mouth to speak, but Cassia Ingram hadn't quite finished.

"Your life is more important than this case, Sherlock. There is no value in killing yourself just to prove a point. You have to take better care of the 'transport', Sherlock. You need it every bit as much as your brain and your intellect. Your brain won't be much use to anyone pickled in formaldehyde in a jar on a shelf at Bart's Hospital. A healthy body and a healthy mind. You're a whole person, Sherlock, not just your mind, if one fails, the other isn't much use."

"I will bear that in mind in future."

"Why do you place so little value on your life, Sherlock? Do you really hate yourself so much? How can you not care whether you live or die, when you have come to realize that the people closest to you _do _care?"

Holmes made no reply.

"Anyway, if it's any consolation, Sherlock, your grandmother is also very sure that you are close to fulfilling your part in this, whatever that may be, but you have to face facts, stop being so stubborn and start thinking about yourself for a change. Stop thinking of it as a game. This is serious. It's about as serious as it gets."

"Alright, I promise," he gave a huge sigh, but refused to meet her gaze.

"No, say it like you actually _mean _it, Sherlock, or I'm out of here, right now."

She was angry now, and defiant.

"And you won't hear from me again. You'll have to work on the case by yourself, and you probably won't get any of the answers you seek, and then you'll still have to have the surgery, and he'll go on killing and I'll slowly go out of my mind, and it may be years before you finally find out what happened and who the killer is, and in the meantime, you'll eat your heart out every day knowing that you had the chance to stop it, and didn't, because of your own stupidity and obstinacy."

She tormented him now.

"Or I might just find someone else to help me. I convinced you, I could convince someone else. But, I won't be held responsible for the world's only Consulting Detective destroying himself. You can do what you like, but I won't stand by and watch, Sherlock. Why the hell should I place my trust, my mind, my body, _my life_, in the hands of a man who has so little regard for his own? If you can't care about yourself, how can you care about what happens to me?"

"I do care," Holmes insisted now. "That is why I wanted you to stay here, so that your next vision or dream would happen under controlled conditions, under the supervision of a doctor no less, so that I could assure myself that you would be safe."

"I know." Cassia let out a long, heavy sigh. "You're not so cold hearted as you make out after all, are you, Sherlock?" Cassia Ingram gave him a sweet smile now.

"So why do you find it so hard to show yourself a little of that warmth and understanding? Be good to yourself, my friend. You still have a lot of work to do, and you're going to need all the gifts that God gave you to do it. So stop procrastinating, and accept the inevitable. Be the man you are, Sherlock, no more, no less. Just _you_. _You_ are what makes the difference. _You_ are the counter balance, the good that equals out the worst of the evil in this world, Sherlock. So? Will you make me that promise?"

"I promise," and this time he genuinely sounded like he meant it, deeply touched by the sincerity of her words, meeting her steady green gaze with his own blue/grey one.

They appealed to more than his ego.

And in truth, he had no desire to push this particular envelope any further, the sudden loss of his sight more than frightening to him than he cared to admit.

He wasn't brave.

He wasn't a hero.

Yet, nor was he stupid.

He knew the implications of delaying the surgery, but what harm could a few more hours do, especially if they could get some concrete evidence to pass on to the Police, and perhaps, help to save the life of another poor unfortunate child.

"Whatever happens, even if we don't get the results you want?"

"Even if we don't get the results we _all _want. I promise, but I have one condition of my own."

"Oh?"

"I ask you for the same amount of time that I asked John for. Twenty four hours. At the end of that time, if we still have no firm evidence to take to Inspector LeStrade, then I will go to the hospital and allow Sir Roger Witty to crack open my skull like an egg. Do we have a deal, Cass?"

"If John feels that it is alright, then I suppose I don't have any choice, do I? I will agree to abide by his medical knowledge and experience. But the minute he says it's over, Sherlock ..."

"Thank you."


	28. Chapter 28

_**Chapter Twenty Eight.**_

They had grown silent, but no longer the uneasy silence of before.

Sherlock finished his tea, and then went to the bathroom where he relieved himself, then after washing his hands, splashed cold water on his face, and then ran a comb through his unruly locks, wincing as even that seemed to cause his head to hurt more, all the time regarding the hollow cheeked man who looked back at him from the mirror above the sink as though he were a stranger.

He resisted the urge to bob his tongue out at his reflection.

Actually, upon reflection, he realized that he didn't look quite so bad.

Indeed, there had been days when he had looked much, much worse.

He still looked tired and there was a hint of the pain that he could still feel thrumming through his skull, in his eyes, but he had more colour now, and his body did not feel quite so unsteady and shaky.

The nap had done him good.

Just as he had predicted.

He sauntered back into the kitchen and ran the cold tap to fill a glass of water and took the two pain pills Watson had left for him on the counter along with a note telling him categorically_ not_ to take them before at least four hours had elapsed since the last dose.

Four hours had well and truly elapsed, and Sherlock could hardly believe that he had slept for so long.

He swallowed the pills down gratefully and then rinsed out the glass and turned it upside down on the drainer, noticing as he did so that the kitchen looked remarkably clean and tidy for a change.

Not Mrs Hudson's usual style either, he noted.

For one thing, everything had been replaced exactly where it should be, not where Mrs Hudson _thought_ it ought to be.

It made for a very refreshing change.

After Mrs Hudson had been in, he could rarely find what he wanted straight away, always having to hunt around, making more of a mess than before she started, and no matter how many times he complained to her about it, she insisted on doing things her way, whilst complaining that she was his landlady, not his housekeeper!

So that was how Cassia Ingram had passed the time while he had been out for the count, and probably why Mrs Hudson had warmed to her so easily.

Her willingness to muck in.

The sign of an orderly mind, respect for someone else's preferences, or an indication of obsessive compulsive behaviour?

_Mmmmm._

He would have to think about that for a while before coming to a decision.

Perhaps it was just a case that Cassia Ingram was a well trained house guest, taking nothing for granted and wanting to pull her weight.

Never mind. He approved.

After downing the pain pills, Holmes realized that he was peckish, so he dug out half a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits from a cupboard and wandered back into the living room, nibbling on one, dripping crumbs on the carpet as he went, the pack still in his hand and so as he offered one to Cassia Ingram, like the good host he was, and accepted with a grateful smile, then he retrieved his mobile phone and laptop and made himself comfortable in his chair.

Cassia Ingram ate her biscuit in silence and glanced around the comfortable bachelor's living room.

Holmes had plenty of books, but she didn't think that she would find any of the heavier tomes to her liking, they seemed to be mostly science based, or law books judging by the titles on the cracked spines, and she knew that her brain was in no fit state to absorb anything written on the yellowed pages of the dusty, ancient tomes.

Holmes meanwhile, used his thumbs to dash off a quick text to Watson as he waited for his laptop to fire up and absently chewed another chocolate biscuit.

'_Where R U? SH.'_

Watson's answer came back quickly.

_"Ah, the beast awakes... JW'_

_'Very funny. I love you too, kiss, kiss, kiss, SH'_

_You ok? JW.'_

'_Yes. SH.'_

'_Leaving shortly. JW.'_

'_Leaving where? SH.'_

'_The practice. Did my evening surgery list. Last one for a while. Have to see Locum agency sent round and set her straight. Should be back by 6.30 -7pm latest. Chinese still ok for everyone? JW.'_

"Watson wants to know if you still want Chinese takeaway for dinner?"

Holmes casually glanced in Cassia Ingram's direction and caught her scrutinizing the living room, as only a female could, with a view to it being a future home.

He was startled by the notion, and then wondered why.

Didn't all women always look at new rooms with an eye to how they could change them if they had the chance?

Holmes found himself wondering how in the world, this women might have got even the slightest hint from him that he might welcome her into his home, other than as a guest.

Watson had been the ideal flat mate, but now that he was gone, Holmes had no need to share, he was financially more stable and able to afford the rent on his own, and he found that he liked living alone, and the freedom that it afforded him.

He had no intention of sharing his personal space with anyone.

Least of all a woman!

"Fine by me."

"Hmmm?"

Holmes looked back at Cassia Ingram with a startled look on his face, not realizing that he had been so lost in his own thoughts.

"I said fine by me. Chinese?" She reminded with a soft smile on her lips.

"Do you have any preference? Anything you can't eat for religious reasons, or any special dietary requirements?"

"No Sherlock, nothing like that. I'll have what everyone else is having, thanks. Actually, I'm not really all that hungry," she confided. "I've still got the collywobbles," she smiled wryly. "Probably best not to put too much into my stomach. I wouldn't want to embarrass myself later."

Holmes merely nodded, then used his thumbs to text Watson back, knowing that his friend was aware of his likes and dislikes, as far as Chinese food went, and that he would bring a selection of dishes so that they could each dip in and share.

Pot luck.

Just like old times.

Holmes realized that he had somehow polished off the last of the chocolate biscuits, and had to admit to himself, that he was suddenly starving and so he added a post script to his text.

'_Bring Chips... Prawn Crackers too. SH."_

'_Chips? R U sure you're not pregnant? JW.'_

'_LMAO. SH.'_

_'That I would pay to see! Anything else, your Lordship? JW.'_

'_Something sweet. We might need something to keep our strength up later. Could be a long night. SH.'_

'_Chips and chocolate? You'll get fat! JW.'_

'_I should be so lucky. SH.'_

'_See what I can do. JW.'_

'_Hurry up. I could eat a horse! SH.'_

'_Tough, chew on your scarf until I get there. JW.'_

After concluding his text message, Sherlock Holmes turned his attention to his computer, becoming so engrossed that he seemed to forget that Cassia Ingram was still in the room with him.

Sensing that he was lost in his own little world, Cassia Ingram watched Sherlock Holmes surreptitiously through her long eyelashes, a soft smile forming on her lips, pleased to see that he did not look quite so sickly after his nap.

She had thought it a very good sign when he had come wandering back into the living room chomping on biscuits, and had known that he was over his earlier difficulties and was starting to feel a little more like his usual self.

_Uh oh..._

_Watch out!_

Cassia continued to watch surreptitiously as he balanced the computer on his knees, his long, elegant, musician's fingers dancing over the keyboard confidently, and she guessed that he was responding to his new emails and checking for possible future cases.

That was also a good sign.

That he still perceived that he might be around to get the opportunity to look into future cases, and be up to taking on the challenges they might present with all his faculties in tact.

Perhaps he had taken what she had told him about not joining the angels just yet, to heart after all.

As she looked at him, Cassia realized that he would make the perfect subject for a sketch.

He really was the most beautiful man that she had ever met.

The almost flawless alabaster skin, flawless, only because of the tiny moles on his neck, which he flaunted by leaving open the collar and top button of his shirt and not wearing a neck tie. That wonderful bone structure, especially those sculpted, aristocratic cheekbones, and those enigmatic eyes, sometimes appearing almost crystal clear, sometimes so blue they were like London Topaz, sometimes grey, smoky, sleepy and catlike, sometimes seeming to spit fire when he was angry, agitated or excited, and other times, cold as ice, all seeing and calculating, more reptilian, almost snake-like, and those lips, that almost perfect Cupid's bow, eminently kissable.

If you dared.

_Not likely._

_He bites!_

_And he's way too hot for my blood._

Yet, the man did not seem to have any sense of just how attractive he was, although, she suspected that when he needed to, he could turn on the charm to use to his advantage.

She had also seen the less than attractive side to him.

Sensed the danger there.

The very fine line between brilliance and madness, that he teetered on daily.

He was happy to cross boundaries when necessary, and John Watson was a perfect foil for him, his moral compass, but John wasn't always there, and without that guidance, someone to reign in his natural tendencies, Holmes could be something of a loose cannon.

Cassia couldn't resist the desire to try to capture all that on paper, the beauty, the innocence, the intensity and the intelligence, so she picked up her sketch pad once more, opened it to a clean page, grabbed a stick of charcoal and began to draw, noting as she did so, the perplexed frown now drawing down the young man's brow.

Something had obviously displeased him.

Ignoring the look, Cassia continued to draw, quickly outlining the shape of his face, concentrating on his strongest features, his chin and cheekbones, to get the correct proportions.

"So, Cass, tell me about yourself," Holmes invited casually, glancing up from his computer screen momentarily, a look of genuine interest on his face.

Cassia caught the look as she flicked her eyes up from the page to check that she had his eye's correctly centred on her drawing, and saw something in those unique eyes that warned her that he was up to something.

A surprised look crossed Holmes face as he looked up properly then and found Cassia Ingram sitting, barefoot and crossed legged on the couch once more, a large artist's sketch pad balanced on her knee.

"What are you doing?" he frowned.

"Baking a cake," she could not resist teasing him, he looked so dumbfounded suddenly.

"Very drool," Holmes drawled as she returned her attention to whatever it was that she was drawing.

"Doodling," she told him then, more seriously, without taking her eyes off the page before her, her face now a picture of concentration, her hand moving confidently and fluidly over the paper.

"Doodling?"

"Yes. I'm sure you did something similar when you were a kid and got bored in class."

And Cassia Ingram was sure that he had been bored, more often than not, because he would have been so much smarter than the rest of the kids in his class, quickly taking in the finer points of every lesson, way ahead of them, and therefore he would have grown bored quickly and probably spent much of his time staring out the classroom window, or defacing the desk with a ballpoint pen.

_Sherlock waz 'ere!_

She'd been there too.

Not a posh education like Sherlock must surely have had.

Strictly state schools for her, then college and finally a good university, and each institution had been more than adequate for her requirements.

Holmes expression confirmed her assumption, when she again glanced up to make sure that she had the sweep of his fringe, now falling somewhat endearingly over one eye, correct.

"You know, doodles. Squiggles, stick figures, funny faces, cartoons. That sort of thing. Like daydreams on paper. I just draw what comes into my imagination, " she elaborated for him, again without taking her eyes off her creation, not wanting him to realize that _he_ was the subject of her present imaginings. "It helps to relax me. Some people read, do yoga, or meditate, some people play an instrument, some shout and throw things at the television," she grinned then. "I doodle."

"Oh," Holmes continued to frown, suddenly realizing that she had deflected his invitation to talk about herself quite easily.

He was surprised.

For most women he had encountered it had been their favourite subject and they had been more than happy to talk about themselves, wanting to impress him, but Cassia Ingram, he realized, had avoided doing any such thing since the day he had met her, and he recalled that he had initially liked the notion that she did not need to fill the silence with superfluous idiotic prattle and ramblings, however, now, it disconcerted him, made him suspicious, and, it occured to him, it would be awkward for him to ask her straight out again.

Holmes let out a deep sigh of frustration.

_What exactly did he know about this woman?_

After meeting her several times now, in truth, he knew next to nothing about her, only that she had a genuine psychic gift, was stronger than she realized, mentally and emotionally, she was intelligent, good hearted and compassionate, and she could be outspoken and passionate when something moved her and she had something to say.

His Google search of just a few moments ago had yielded nothing new, and his observations of her had told him very little about her.

She was a complete enigma to him.

Holmes hated being in the dark like this.

He also always loathed knowing nothing about his clients.

It tended to split his concentration and divide his time and attention because he could not resist trying to find out more about the person that he was working for, whilst also trying to fathom out the case they had brought to him.

Pauper or Prince, it made no difference to him, he just needed to know whom he was dealing with because he hated nasty surprises further down the road, for he had learned early on in his career that the motives of those seeking him out were not always purely good or selfless.

Holmes much preferred to concentrate his mind on one problem at a time and not to have to constantly be worrying about looking over his shoulder, trying to deduce whom was friend and whom was foe.

He prided himself on his ability to read people, to see things that others didn't, the little tells that revealed to him so much about a person's personality, life style, profession and habits.

Cassia Ingram was a totally blank canvass, and intentionally so, he decided.

Either that or he was sicker than he thought, and his finely honed powers of observation and deduction were failing him.

Holmes didn't think so, and that wasn't over self confidence.

It wasn't just him she seemed to be hiding her true self from.

How was it possible in this digital age, for someone not to leave some kind of footprint or trail on the internet?

As far as the web was concerned, she was practically invisible.

Indeed he had only found one Cassia Ingram during all of his searches on the internet.

One woman with that name in the right age group and the right geographical location, indeed the world, when normally, even with the most unusual of names, you could find at least a half a dozen scattered around the globe.

Only one Cassia Ingram.

Cassia.

Not Cassandra or Cassie, or even Cassiopia.

Only _one_ Cassia Ingram in the whole wide world?

_What were the odds of that?_

_Was that even her real name?_

Cassia.

Even as he thought about it, it sounded contrived.

A made up name.

Was she even _the_ one and only Cassia Ingram that he had found during his internet investigations?

He did not know for certain whether she was or was not.

However, he sensed that she was not going to make it easy for him to find out.

Most people didn't even realize the trail they were leaving electronically as they passed through life, but Cassia Ingram seemed not to have left so much as a footprint in the sand.

She was a ghost.

Well, not literally, of course. He knew that she was real, substance, for he had held her in his arms, only briefly, and she had been flesh and bone, but in every other way, she might as well be ethereal.

Spirit.

So, she either lived in a bubble, or she was very clever and went out of her way to avoid leaving any trail behind her.

_The question was, why?_

_What was she trying to hide?_

_And not just from him._

Holmes watched as she yielded her charcoal stick with confidence, her hand moving gracefully and fluidly over the large page, tilted up slightly on her lap before her, her face soft and relaxed.

Open.

Just as it had been since their very first meeting.

Look at me, here I am, what you see is exactly what you get.

_I don't think so, Miss Ingram!_

_What was she hiding?_

_Who was she?_

_Really?_

_Damn!_

_How irritating!_

He, Sherlock Holmes, the greatest deductive mind of the era, reduced to needing to resort to asking questions like other mere mortals, instead of being able to deduce what he needed just by observation alone.

_Drat!_

He let out another sigh of frustration, and this time Cassia stopped drawing and looked up at him curiously.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?"

"No."

"Oh."

"I was just thinking... Recalling a case I followed a few years ago."

"Oh?"

She returned her attention to her creation, seemingly uninterested.

"Yes. Sir Walter Bootle.'

"Who?"

'Sir Walter Bootle. Merchant banker, died in 2007."

Holmes spoke casually however as he regarded Cassia with a curious frown creasing his brow, he realized that she genuinely did not seem to recognize the name.

"His son tried to infer murder but there was nothing to it. Unless, of course, your sources tell you otherwise... "

"My what?"

"You know, your sources, on the other side."

"No."

She lifted her hand to rub at some irritant just below her right eye and left an attractive black charcoal smudge on her cheekbone.

"Why?"

Holmes regarded Cassia with a curious frown deepening on his brow as he realized that she genuinely did not seem to recognize the name.

_How odd._

"Because he was your god father," he added dryly.

"No," Cassia shook her head gently but did not lift her eyes from the page before her, nor did her hand miss a stroke as she continued to draw, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth absently in concentration.

No deception there, Holmes deduced.

She really did not have a clue what he was talking about.

_The plot thickens!_

"_Not_ your god father?" Holmes pressed.

"Nope."

"Oh. Your date of birth is June 1st, 1978, yes?"

"Nope."

She continued to draw, but now there was a small, knowing smile beginning to curve at her lips.

_Damn._

_She knew that he was on a fishing expedition._

"Oh."

"Checking up on me?"

"Just curious."

"Wrong Cassia Ingram."

"Must be," Holmes muttered through clenched teeth, irritated at being thwarted so easily.

"Was that your quaint way of trying to be delicate, and ask my age, Sherlock?"

_Now she was laughing at him!_

"No."

"Good. Didn't your mother ever tell you that it was rude to ask a lady her age?"

Holmes grunted something inaudible.

"But, as you are so curious, I'll tell you. I'm as old as my tongue, and a little bit older than my teeth!"

She chuckled softly now, and it was quite a pleasant sound.

Then suddenly she grew serious and fixed her lovely green eyes on his face.

"Are you worried about whom you have invited to stay under your roof?"

"No. I told you that I trust you, and I meant it."

"Good."

"But it strikes me that I really know so little about you."

"Ah, the great detective at work. You really can't stop yourself, can you? What's wrong, Sherlock? Can't work me out?"

He scowled silently back at her, irritated at the dig, and just how astute she was, even more convinced that she was deliberately concealing her true self from him and even more determined to find out the truth.

_If she thought she was going to get the better of him, then she better look out!_

_But why?_

_Why did she feel the need to deceive him, and the rest of the world?_

_Who was she!_

"You know all that you need to know about me, Sherlock. I promise you that I am not an axe murderess, and I haven't escaped from a mental hospital or a prison. What more do you need?"

"Your real name would be a good start, don't you think?" He demanded with a triumphant look on his face.

_Gotchya!_

At that moment they heard the street door downstairs close, voices rising from the hallway, briefly, and then a few minutes later John Watson was bounding up the stairs with a bag of Chinese food in one hand and Holmes London Evening Standard in the other.

"Sorry it took so long, there was a queue," he spoke breathlessly, breezing through the living room toward the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson gave me this," he tossed the neatly folded newspaper to Holmes as he carried on walking to the kitchen. "She said to tell you, nice legs, shame about the face."

Holmes caught the paper adeptly and made a snort of disgust, silently cursing Watson for his poor timing.

Meanwhile, Cassia Ingram continued to regard Holmes with a soft, knowing smile, aware of his disdain and irritation but unwilling to put him out of his misery, and then she closed her sketch pad and propped it up against the side of the couch, returning the charcoal stick to the tin with the others and rose, gracefully, from the couch, languidly stretching her body, feeling a little stiff after sitting for so long.

"I'll go and see if John needs any help with the food," and with that she walked across the room, head held high, ignoring Holmes sour experssion and rather pointed, frustrated glare.


	29. Chapter 29

**_Chapter Twenty Nine_**

Cassia Ingram and John Watson worked well together, putting out the selection of dishes that Watson had brought for their dinner, and then she returned to the sitting room to lay the table for three, while Sherlock Holmes scowled behind his evening newspaper, shifting irritably in his chair.

The three of them ate in silence, Holmes making inroads into a plate piled high with Sweet and Sour Chicken, Chips, Crispy Noodles and Prawn Crackers, devouring the food like a man who had been on a desert island for months, barely stopping to take a breath between bites, which disconcerted Watson, who feared that his friend would pay for his rash eating habits later.

_What a pig!_

_I don't need to be psychic to foresee a technicolour yawn in your future, Sherlock, my friend!_

In some ways it was pleasing to see, but in others, it was rather worrying. His body just wasn't used to it.

It was also one of the things that Sir Frederick Penrose Gill had warned him to look out for, along with sudden irrational mood swings and personality changes and lack of inhibitions.

_So, if he started ripping off his clothes and strutting around stark bollock naked, that was definitely time to cart him off to hospital!_

_Oh wait, he already did that, at Buckingham Palace no less, although on that occasion he did at least have the decency to wrap himself in a sheet._

_Exhibitionist!_

Meanwhile, Cassia Ingram nibbled on a Prawn Cracker and dipped it into soy sauce, the small portion of Chicken Chow Mein hardly touched on her plate.

Watson grew more and more uncomfortable as the meal progressed, sensing the odd, cloying atmosphere in the room as he ploughed his way through Sweet and Sour Pork and Egg Fried Rice.

_More like a ruddy elephant in the room._

He thought sourly to himself.

Holmes was acting very strangely and Cassia seemed to have withdrawn into herself, quiet and ponderous, although she did not seem uncomfortable as she ignored Holmes' silent, scathing, evil looks.

They seemed to have reached some kind of standoff, avoiding looking at each other, much less speaking to each other, and the strained silence was creating an unpleasant atmosphere that was definitely putting Watson off his dinner, as he wondered what had transpired between Holmes and Cassia during his absence that afternoon.

Nothing good, it seemed.

_Oh terrific!_

_What a fun evening this is going to be!_

After dinner, Cassia, who had barely touched any of her food, offered to clear the table, wash the dishes and tidy the kitchen, while the two men caught up with the news headlines on the BBC News Channel, and Watson suspected it was a ploy, to remove herself from the heavy, poisonous atmosphere Holmes was exuding.

Her chores completed, when Cassia returned to the living room, she found Holmes and Watson engaged in conversation about the deepening unrest in several Middle Eastern countries, and she made for her place on the couch, sitting down quietly, curling up in the corner, listening to each man's concerns about the future of those countries, and for their peoples, all the time aware of Sherlock Holmes' scrutiny of her, and the silent promise that she had seen in his eyes over dinner, that he would finish their conversation at the first opportunity.

Cassia made herself as small as she could in the corner of the couch, drawing her legs up under her, tipping her head back and closing her eyes against Holmes petulant expression and scathing looks, grateful to have some small respite from his cold disdain toward her.

_God he could be a loathsome creature when he wanted to be!_

Back to square one.

_Damn him!_

He was wary of her again, and all because he couldn't be satisfied with knowing what he did about her.

Back to believing that she was trying to deceive him somehow.

No longer quite so trusting.

_But why?_

He knew all the important things about her.

All the things that he needed to help her to end the killing

Surely that was all that mattered?

But no.

He was the great Sherlock Holmes, and he had to go deeper into things. He had to keep asking questions.

_Smart arse._

It never occurred to him that the questions he was asking were the wrong questions.

Nor that the answers he sought were not important.

They wouldn't alter anything.

Better men than he had tried to solve the enigma that was Cassia Ingram, and had failed.

Somehow she doubted that he would be flattered to be amongst such illustrious company.

_Let it alone, Sherlock._

_It doesn't matter._

I_ do not matter!_

_There are more important things at stake here._

_Oh hell!_

Well, it wouldn't matter after tonight.

One way or another tonight would see an end to it.

He had made her and John a promise.

Tonight it would be over, and she would be able to fade away and he would forget that _she_ had ever existed.

He would only remember a woman called Cassia Ingram.

Cassia found it restful sitting on the couch with her eyes closed, listening to both men putting the world to rights, both of them seeming to have forgotten her presence in the room with them.

However, she was still not sleepy.

Both men had pleasant voices, Holmes' rich, deep baritone, Watson more of a tenor, and both spoke with passion, firstly about the precarious political situation in the Middle East, and then about different sporting headlines, and finally, the weather forecast for the upcoming Bank Holiday weekend.

It seemed that there was a fresh storm brewing.

_And not just outside!_

When the news headlines began to repeat from the beginning again, Holmes switched off the television set and both he and Watson turned their attention to their laptop computers, Watson updating his blog for a recent case, although he deliberately left out anything that even hinted at Holmes' present illness, and Holmes, well, he was impatiently tapping at the keys on his keyboard and scowling at the computer screen, continuing to try to find out more about her, Cassia deduced, and not enjoying the fact that he kept encountering the same brick wall.

_Good luck with that, Sherlock._

At least it would keep him occupied, and hopefully, quiet for a while longer.

Cassia took out her own mobile phone and checked her email account and for any text messages, but there were none, not that she had expected any, however, she was a child of her times, just as adept at using the technology as either of these two intelligent men, and it was something to do with her hands.

At about 9pm, when it was just starting to get dark outside, and she and Watson had run out of the occasional snatches of small talk, and Holmes' irritated mood and withering looks had started to get on her nerves, his sour mood and deliberate ignorance of her presence in the room creating a noxious, negative, oppressive atmosphere in the room that she knew would taint her psychic ability later if she did not remove herself from it's influence, Cassia rose slowly from the couch, stretching her aching legs and emitting a deep sigh as she jammed her bare feet into a pair of low heeled black pumps.

"Going somewhere?" Holmes asked sarcastically raising his eyes from his laptop long enough to eye her with cold disdain.

"I'm going for a walk. I need some fresh air."

"That is the last thing you need."

"And to stretch my legs. I've been cooped up inside all day..."

"Sit down," Holmes commanded angrily now, causing even Watson to look around at him in surprise and confusion. "Fresh air and exercise are the last things that you need. They will only keep you awake. A soporific is more in keeping. You do not need any more stimulants. All that tea you drank this afternoon would keep a rhinoceros awake!"

"I'm really not sleepy anyway..."

"Tosh woman! You're exhausted. Stop fighting it_, Cass_," Holmes' sneered as he deliberately hissed her name sarcastically. "And try to get some sleep."

"Stop telling me what to do, Sherlock!"

Of course, he was right.

She was bone weary, and yes, she was fighting it, trying to delay the inevitable, but in all honesty, who could blame her?

Besides, the atmosphere that Holmes' was creating in the room was hardly conducive to restful slumber.

Cassia needed some time out away from Holmes' very obvious irritation and negativity to regroup, to compose herself and calm herself so that she could build up her mental and psychic protections so that she was as prepared as she could be for whatever might happen later.

"I won't be long," she assured, raising her chin in fierce determination. "I'm not going to run out on you, Sherlock."

However, Holmes gave her another pointed, disapproving look.

"Where can I go? I'm not your prisoner, Sherlock, but I'll leave all my things here as insurance that I will come back," she was pulling on her coat now to show that she was not going to cow-tow to him, the look of determination etched into her face.

"There are things I need to do, to prepare myself for later, and I can't do that here," and that was all the explanation he was getting.

"Here..."

Watson dug his hand into his trouser pocket and produced his copy of the front door key. "You'd better take this. Don't want to disturb Mrs Hudson at this time of night, by knocking the door when you get back."

He handed her the key, ignoring Holmes' blatant look, the one he recognized as accusing him of being a traitor.

"Thank you, John," Cassia accepted the key from him graciously and then without another word, she left the room, aware as she did so of Sherlock Holmes' cold, furious glare.


	30. Chapter 30

_**Chapter Thirty.**_

"What the devil is going on, Sherlock?" Watson hissed at his friend as they heard the street door downstairs close behind Cassia Ingram.

"Did you two have some sort of fight while I was out?" He quizzed, watching in surprise as Sherlock suddenly uncoiled himself from his seat and practically vaulted across the room to the couch, where he bent down and scooped up Cassia Ingram's handbag and promptly began rifling through the contents.

"Flippin' heck, Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing?" He demanded as he watched Holmes turn the handbag upside down and tip the entire contents onto the sofa cushions, most of them bouncing off and landing on the floor.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with you!"

He was definitely not amused by his friend's behaviour.

Sherlock could be erratic and impulsive, but this was weird even for him.

Suddenly Watson recalled the conversation that he had had with Sir Frederick Penrose Gill a few hours before, and the other symptoms that he should be on the look out for.

Strange, odd or unusual behaviour, personality changes, and sudden, irrational mood changes.

_Oh God, Sherlock..._

_Was this it?_

_Was he watching the wheels come off at last?_

Watson had wondered how he might tell the difference, as Holmes had demonstrated all of those traits in the time that he had known him, as well as flashes of utter brilliance, and borderline mania.

_Hang on a minute..._

_Was this just Holmes being Holmes, or was this something that he, Watson should be really, really worried about?_

"No. No... Sherlock, put that back..."

Holmes had Cassia Ingram's purse in his hand and was flicking through the contents, a disappointed look on his face quickly telling Watson that he had not found what he was looking for.

"Damn!"

Holmes launched the offending purse across the room, sending coins scattering around the room in all directions, then he fell to his knees and began rifling through the contents of Cassia Ingram's overnight bag, tossing items of clothing over his shoulder like a dog throwing up dirt, digging a hole to bury a bone.

"Sherlock, will you stop it, please, just calm down and tell me what is going on!"

"Miss Ingram, if indeed, that _is_ her name, has not been entirely honest with us, John," Holmes intoned in a low, angry voice, his long fingers opening up every zip and delving inside each pocket and then when he had emptied the overnight bag, he turned that upside down and shook it, no doubt hoping to work loose some piece of incriminating evidence, but once again coming up empty.

_He's barmy!_

_He's off his ruddy trolley!_

"For God's sake, Sherlock!"

Watson was truly concerned now, torn between being anxious that this abhorrent behaviour was a serious development in his friend's mental health and his outrage at what Sherlock was doing to Cassia Ingram's things.

Invading her privacy like this was simply beyond the pale.

Even for Holmes.

"Will you stop it! You can't go through her things like that! What exactly are you looking for anyway?"

"Her true identity."

"Sherlock, are you feeling ok?"

There was genuine concern in Watson's voice now.

"I'm fine," Holmes snarled as he ran his fingers inside the last pocket that he could find inside the overnight bag, then tore out the loose fitting bottom and again tipped the bag upside down and shook it vigorously.

Nothing fell out.

"And I am telling you, John, _that_ woman, whoever she is, is _not_ Cassia Ingram. Damnation!"

Holmes flung the overnight bag across the other side of the room in rage, almost knocking the shade off one of the lamps.

"Sherlock..."

Watson lowered his voice now, hoping that if he stayed calm and rational, he could somehow create the same reaction in his friend.

"You need to calm down, sit down and tell me what is going on with you..."

"There is nothing going on with me, John!" Holmes roared, looking around for something else to search, but fortunately, there was nothing.

"Explain it to me then, Sherlock," Watson invited hoping that he could get an insight into what Holmes was thinking.

"No passport, no driving licence, no bank cards, or credit cards, no mail in her name or anything with an address on it and no house keys or car keys. What woman doesn't carry her entire life in her handbag, John, and yet, Miss Ingram has no personal information with her at all."

"It could be in her coat pocket, Sherlock," Watson sighed softly, his anxiety about his friend's mental health growing by the second.

"No, there is only one pocket in her coat, John, and the stitching along the bottom has come undone." Holmes observed, his wild blue/grey eyes scanning the room for something else to search. "She wouldn't carry anything in there because she would be sure to lose it."

_Oh well, at least his powers of observation were still functioning normally, even if the rest of his mind had gone off planet for a moment._

Watson thought sourly.

And, he had to admit, Holmes did have a point about what women carried around in the handbags, the things they considered essential that they could not leave the house without.

"That still doesn't prove anything, Sherlock. She's been staying with a friend, remember? Maybe her ID and stuff is still there, after all, the friend probably only threw what she thought Cass might need for the night into a bag and sent it around in a cab," Watson reminded, growing more and more concerned by his friend's increasingly odd and paranoid behaviour.

_This was definitely not good._

"It proves that she has deliberately been concealing her true identity from us!" Holmes roared, a sneer on his face now, utter disbelief in his eyes that what was blatantly obvious to him was not clear to his friend.

A wild, ecstatic look suddenly danced across Holmes' face, making him look like a mad man momentarily, as he pounced on Cassia Ingram's mobile phone, which had slipped between two seat cushions on the couch.

"Sherlock..."

"Drat! It's a pretty decent smart phone, but its pay as you go, and so easily disposable."

Holmes used his thumbs to access various menus.

"Damnation! There are no contacts in the contact list. She's even deleted the call list, texts, sent and received!"

Holmes was about to fling the phone across the room when Watson decided that enough was definitely enough and launched himself at Holmes, grabbing his wrist and shaking his hand so he finally dropped the phone and it landed on top of a pile of Cassia Ingram's underwear which was scattered in a pool on the floor around the couch.

"Sherlock," Watson ground out between his teeth. "Dammit man, get a grip you big nellie!"

Watson then wrenched Holmes arm up behind his back, not too harshly because he didn't want to hurt him, only to snap him out of this manic behaviour, and carefully span him around, away from the couch, shoving him gently away from him and propelling him across the room, to where the younger man sank down in his chair wearily, all the energy seeming to drain out of him.

Suddenly deflated, too.

The fight gone out of him, Watson noted as Holmes buried his head in his hands for a moment.

At least he wouldn't be coming back at him to throw a punch of his own.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm alright, John." Holmes assured in a calmer voice now, although he was still rather wild eyed and breathless.

"No. No, you're _not_ alright. You really think, _this_," Watson made a sweeping gesture around all points of the room to where Holmes had thrown various bits of Cassia Ingram's belongings in his rage and frustration. "Is alright?"

"Well..."

Holmes looked at his friend now, a contrite expression on his face as he gulped in air, and Watson was relieved to see that look, for it told him that Holmes was back in control of himself, and understood that he had crossed over a line that he should not have, even if he did not regret doing it.

"You seriously lost the plot there, my friend," Watson began to bend down, picking up articles of clothing and stuffing them back inside Cassia Ingram's overnight bag. "I was seriously considering ringing for the men in white coats and arranging a nice warm padded cell for you for the night."

"I'm not losing my mind, John," Holmes reassured, still drawing in long, deep breaths as his full stomach began to show signs of rebelling.

"Just my self control." He admitted ruefully now. "A little. But you know how I hate not knowing anything about my clients."

_Oh, that old chestnut!_

"That doesn't give you the right to cast Cassia's belongings to the four winds, Sherlock."

Watson crossed the room and retrieved Cassia Ingram's purse, scooped up a handful of loose change that was scattered across the carpet and under various bits of furniture, and deposited them inside the open pocket of the purse.

However, as he did so, he could not help noticing that Holmes was right.

There were no bank cards, credit cards, store cards, or driving licence. Indeed, the only money she seemed to have was in small denomination notes and loose change that amounted to less than £20.00.

She wouldn't get far on that in London.

Watson quickly realized that this woman, Cassia Ingram, or whoever she was, didn't want _anyone_ to know who she was, not just himself and Sherlock.

However, John still did not see the relevance.

He had never really understood Holmes need to know everything that he could about his client.

What did it matter who they were or where they came from and what they did for a living, so long as they could meet the small fee Holmes was obliged to request in return for his services.

_Was that what this was all about?_

Was Sherlock worried that Cassia Ingram would not be able to cough up at the end of this?

_No._

Holmes didn't care about money one way or the other and he had always left the dirty business of money changing hands to him in the past.

"What the hell does it matter, Sherlock, really? Who she is? That is not what this case is about, remember? You're not investigating Cassia Ingram, you're trying to catch a killer," Watson reminded him as he walked back to the couch and dropped the purse inside Cassia Ingram's handbag, then set about picking up the rest of her belongings, a powder compact, a comb, a lipstick, a packet of chewing gum, a few loose hair grips, several ball point pens, a packet of handbag size tissues, restoring them to their homes.

He knew that Cassia would realize that someone had been through her things, because everything would be out of place, but there was nothing that he could do about that.

"In the grand scheme of things, Sherlock, what does it matter who she really is?"

"It matters to me. What else is she hiding?"

"Sherlock, from my experience, she's been pretty damned open and honest with you," Watson reasoned now, closing a zipper on the overnight bag. "I think you know all that you need to know about her. She's already proved to you that she is a genuine psychic, what more does she need to do?"

Suddenly the penny dropped.

The real reason for the elephant in the room all evening.

Holmes' witch hunt.

"Christ, Sherlock, is _that _what this is about? Is that why you've been treating her like a leper all evening? No wonder she wanted to get away for a while. You made her feel about as welcome as Typhoid Mary!"

"_Who is she!"_ Holmes hissed through his teeth.

"Who cares!"

"_I do!"_

"Listen, Sherlock, all this will be over soon," Watson reasoned calmly. "Let's just clear up this business and then concentrate on getting you well again, and then you can spend the rest of your pathetic life trying to work out who the real Cassia Ingram is. Now, will you behave!"

Holmes glared at Watson, but he no longer had the will, or the energy to argue.

"You know what's going to happen tonight, Sherlock. You know how hard that is going to be on her. Give the poor woman a break, or you might just drive her away before we get anything useful out of her."

Cassia Ingram had pretty much told him the same thing, Holmes realized, but that had been when she had been laying out her concerns for his own health earlier in the day.

Still, he could see that Watson had a point.

However, he was far too preoccupied with keeping his dinner down to comment further, as his stomach roiled and somersaulted and he felt his throat begin to close.

"Child."

Watson sighed deeply as he finished restoring the room to order, putting all Cassia Ingram's things back into her bags and picked up the sketch pad that Holmes had knocked over while he had been rummaging, propping it up against the side of the couch where Cassia had left it earlier.

He could not help noticing that Sherlock suddenly looked rather green around the gills, and that he seemed to be breathing hard and swallowing over and over.

_Uh oh..._

_Wait for it._

_Move over Usain Bolt!_

"Anyway, how do you know that she isn't who she says she is?" Watson finally decided to ask now that Holmes was calmer, moving slightly to his right to allow his friend room, when he suddenly decided to make the inevitable dash for the bathroom.

"I asked her about Sir Walter Bootle," Watson watched as Holmes raised a balled fist to his mouth to smother a belch, or worse, Watson really didn't want to know. "Her god father."

"And?"

"Apparently, he wasn't her god father at all. She told me I had the wrong Cassia Ingram."

"Sherlock, you nit, there must be hundreds of Cassia Ingrams..."

"No, just one. I found only one, in all my internet searches, John, and it's _not _her."

Sherlock wished he hadn't gotten quite so excited as stomach acid suddenly burned in the back of his throat.

"Well, alright, I grant you that is a bit odd, but, again, I ask, does it really matter? Did it ever occur to you that perhaps she's not trying to deceive us, not trying to hide something from us, but, instead, that she is trying to protect herself, or the people that she loves? Maybe her family don't approve of her gift, and she doesn't want to rub their noses in it by telling the world what she does, so she gave us a false name?"

Watson could see from the look of acute embarrassment on Holmes face that he had not considered the possibility that she was not deceiving them, but that her decision to conceal her true identity from even them was an act of self preservation.

Watson trudged back to his chair, having restored as much order as he could to Cassia Ingram's belongings, and flopped down wearily.

"You know, Sherlock, not everything is a conspiracy or even a mystery, and not everyone craves fame or publicity. Why don't we just try to respect her right to privacy, and see this thing out without any more unpleasantness? It's going to be tough enough on all of us as it is. If you continue to generate this oppressive, tense atmosphere, none of us are going to sleep tonight, and that sort of defeats the point, don't you think?"

"Very well," Holmes emitted a deep sigh of resignation. "After all, I wouldn't want to do anything to stop the spirits from coming out to play," he sneered, then suddenly made a grab at his middle as his stomach once again recoiled.

With more speed than Watson would have thought him possible of at that moment, Sherlock Holmes shot out of his chair and sprinted out of the living room on wobbly legs, his face a very fetching shade of green as he made for the bathroom down the landing.

"You'd better pull your head in my friend," Watson yelled after him as Holmes disappeared inside the bathroom and banged the door behind him. "Or it won't be me taking it off your shoulders. And frankly, I'll happily stand by and hold her coat while she does it!" He concluded to the accompaniment of Holmes being violently sick.

_Oh happy day..._

_It's gonna be a hard day's night..._


	31. Chapter 31

_**Chapter Thirty One.**_

Cassia Ingram left 221B Baker Street, head bowed and a dejected set to her shoulders, as she pulled her coat more tightly around her, for the evening was chilly and damp after a brief rain shower earlier.

It was growing dark now, and although the street lights were flickering into life, one by one along the street, offering a soft orange glow, the encroaching darkness made her feel even more uneasy.

She was not used to going out in the big city alone in the evenings.

Basically, she wasn't used to going out in the evenings at all.

_You house plant._

She wasn't street wise at all, and she was aware that a woman alone on the streets of London would make a wonderful target for robbery, rape, or worse.

_You idiot!_

_Scare yourself silly, why don't you!_

_You should have thought about that before you took the hump and walked out on Holmes!_

Cassia continued to walk, no particular destination in mind, and no intention of staying out too long, driven only by the need to put some distance between the hostile, oppressive atmosphere in Holmes' living room, and the silent, arrogant scrutiny of the man himself.

She found herself a few streets away, approaching a late night convenience store and decided to go inside to buy bread and milk for the following morning, recalling that Holmes' had been running low on both items.

It would also be her way of making a small contribution in return for his hospitality.

_Such as it was._

_Lord, but he was a stubborn, stubborn man!_

Like a rabid dog with a bone.

He was going to prove to be a huge pain in the bum. She could feel it.

She didn't need that in her life.

Things were just perfect as they were, and she didn't need the nosy, bull headed, pugnacious, holier than thou Sherlock Holmes with his smug attitude and sneering face upsetting the apple cart.

She had worked too hard for that.

_Damn him!_

It seemed that Sherlock Holmes was going to be the price that she would have to pay for the rest of her life, for coming forward and trying to do the right thing.

_Such as it was, so shall it ever be..._

Proof positive once more, that for her, no good deed ever went unpunished.

_Why did it always have to be this way?_

Just for once, couldn't she do the right thing, and then go back to her quiet, safe, existence?

She entered the convenience store and after picking up a basket, wondered around the brightly lit interior putting a loaf of medium sliced white bread and a carton of semi skimmed milk side by side in the basket, perusing the shelves as she wondered around, simply killing time, until finally, she went to the check out to pay for her items, and suddenly realized with horror that she had come out without any money.

Her purse was still in her handbag back at 221B Baker Street.

Humiliated and embarrassed, anxious that the shopkeeper would think that she had no intention of paying, and might think of calling the police, she deposited the basket on the checkout desk with a weak smile of apology and then hurried out of the shop.

_Damn the man!_

He had her so unsettled she couldn't think straight.

Hot colour rising on her cheeks, she continued to walk down the street, hurrying away from the store.

She did not want to go back to Holmes' flat just yet.

She needed more time to get her equilibrium back, so she walked a little further and found a black painted metal bench beside a bus shelter and sat down with a hearty sigh.

She ran her hand over her face wearily realizing that she had a stinking headache. Undoubtedly caused, in part, by Holmes' rotten hostility and the atmosphere of negativity that he had been generating, and the tension it had caused in her trying to avoid his scrutiny and maintain her composure.

However, she also sensed that there was an element of Holmes' physical illness to it too.

She was feeling an echo of the pain that he was suffering, the severe pain in his head caused by the alien growth invading his brain.

_Poor Sherlock._

He must be in absolute agony.

And yet, he was so stubborn, so tenacious, he was fighting through that pain and was determined to get to the bottom of the enigma that was Cassia Ingram.

She ran her fingers roughly through her hair, digging her nails into her scalp in a bid to relieve the pain in her head, and then she sat back on the bench and crossed one leg over the other, and pulled her coat about her more tightly as she casually waved a big red London bus away, as it approached to pull up at the bus stop.

There was a definite hint that the season was about to change, in the air, a cold breeze whipping up and carrying with it the scent of more rain, as she sat there contemplating her dilemma.

What to do about Sherlock Holmes.

He was never going to let it go, now that he had realized that she was holding out on him.

He had told her as much, when he had accused her of being a charlatan and that he would do whatever it took to bring her down.

He would spend the rest of his life in pursuit of her secret, gradually undermining the foundations and slowly removing, brick by precious brick, the wall that she had spent most of her adult life building up around her to protect herself.

_Damn him!_

He would hunt her down until he triumphed, and never for one second give a damn about the hurt, turmoil, heartache and chaos that he would cause in his wake.

All he cared about was proving himself right.

All he cared about was his damned game.

The truth.

The consequences of unearthing those truths did not matter to him.

_Egotist._

_No, child!_

A dangerous child to boot, with no conscience, uncaring of appearances, of how things made him look.

_Interfering git!_

_I don't need this!_

_Shit._

_What am I going to do about him?_

You could always marry him, Cherie.

_Or kill him!_

However, neither of those were viable options.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't the marrying kind.

He was above that sort of thing, considering himself 'married to his work', and she had no doubts that he would be impossible to live with.

_Smug bastard loves himself too much to share himself with anyone else!_

Yet, no matter what she thought of him right now, she really did not want him dead.

Hadn't she gone out of her way to make just that point to him only a few hours ago?

He was far too precious a commodity.

No.

She would have to come to some sort of terms with him.

She would have to make a deal with him.

She could not see any other solution.

It all boiled down to trust again.

Did she trust him?

_Yes, dammit, for all the good it would do her._

So, it would have to be a trade off.

If it was the truth that he sought, then it seemed that she was going to have to trust him with it.

And it would have to be the whole truth, not something that she made up quickly on the spot, for he would surely see through that little ruse, and be right back to chipping away at her secret.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

That was the only thing that he would accept.

However, if he heard it from her own lips, perhaps he had just enough humanity and compassion in him to understand her plight, and take her secret with him to his grave.

If nothing else, she sensed that Sherlock Holmes was a decent man at heart.

An honourable man.

_Damn!_

_What choice did she have, really?_

She had no other option but to trust him.

She had no desire to live out the rest of her life on the run and hiding from him.

She had worked so damned hard as it was to garner just a little safety and peace of mind, and she was not prepared to have it shattered by Sherlock ruddy Holmes!

It would be infinitely better to have him as an ally than an enemy.

So, it seemed that it was time to make a deal with the devil.

_Better the devil you know, Cherie..._

_Fine._

_Let the bugger think he had won._

She would do whatever it took to protect her sanity and her security, and preserve the status quo that she had strived so hard to achieve.

Only time would tell if she was right about Holmes, and that she was indeed placing her trust in the right man.

_And woe betide him if he let her down..._


	32. Chapter 32

_**Chapter Thirty Two.**_

"Feeling better?" John Watson asked with very little sympathy in his tone as he watched an ashen faced and very wobbly Sherlock Holmes enter the living room and, using the furniture to keep his balance, stagger across the room to flop down heavily in his chair.

Holmes let out a groan of misery before answering.

"Marginally."

"Serves you right, you know. Bolting down all that food and then getting yourself all worked up like that. It was bound to happen."

"Yes, thank you, doctor," Holmes scowled at his friend, then rubbed at his forehead and ran his hand roughly over his face. "I'd rather not talk about it..."

"No, I'm sure you wouldn't."

"Before I forget, I had an email from Shorecross this morning."

Holmes grabbed the chance to quickly change the subject.

"He has drawn up the document that I requested and he sent me a copy to proof read."

"Shorecross knows how to use email?" Watson smirked, recalling the elderly solicitor.

"Well, obviously, not he, himself. One of his staff," Holmes clarified.

"That was quick. And?"

"I read it, made some small amendments and emailed it back. I got a reply this evening. We can go to his office in the morning to sign the document, and then my good friend, and doctor, my foreseeable future will be in your hands."

"Ok."

Progress at last.

They grew solemn and silent for a moment, and then Watson regarded Holmes a little more sympathetically.

He really did look terrible, pale, haggard, his right hand massaging at his brow absently, trembling slightly, an artefact from his recent vomiting, or perhaps a symptom of the tumour invading his brain, Watson could not be sure, and pain etching deep lines into the corners of his eyes.

He looked older than his years, and it was plain to see that he was suffering.

However, that did not excuse his behaviour this evening, and Watson wasn't prepared to let him off the hook just yet.

"Look, I know you feel rotten, but, you really were well bent out of shape, Sherlock, and, for the record, you were also well out of order. Do you plan on apologizing?"

"Apologize?" Holmes' tone was sarcastic. "Why should I do _that_?"

"Well, if you don't know, there's no point in my telling you."

Watson let out a deep sigh of exasperation.

"Sherlock, do you like her? Cass?"

A thought had occurred to him, while Sherlock had been out of the room, that might just explain why his friend had suddenly gone off the deep end earlier.

At first he had told himself that it was ridiculous, but after some thought, he was beginning to see that there might actually be something in it.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Holmes regarded his friend with cold eyes and frowned now.

"What does what just happened here have to do with anything? You have to admit, that wasn't normal, even for you, Sherlock," Watson reminded gently. "So? Do you? Like her?" He probed again.

Holmes continued to regard him with a sour look on his face, as if he suddenly had a very bad smell right under his nose.

"I just wondered, that's all. It's ok you know. It's allowed."

"I know it's ok," Holmes looked appalled, then frowned deeply. "_What's_ ok?"

"If you, you know..."

"No. Know what?" Holmes shot back in irritated tones, and Watson began to suspect that he had hit the nail, not quite squarely, but definitely on the head.

_Oh Sherlock, you plank ..._

"Fancy her, Sherlock."

"Fancy her?"

"Sherlock!" Watson's tone was incredulous now and he rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"God, Sherlock, sometimes, I despair of you! She is quite an attractive woman, a pleasant woman. Surely even you can't have failed to have noticed that, and, she seems to have you pretty much weighed up, yet, she keeps coming back, even though she's seen you at probably your most obnoxious and mercurial."

"I do not _fancy _her."

There was a grimace on Holmes face that told Watson that he found the very idea disgusting, but Watson was not convinced, for now there was just the teeniest hint of warmth in those normally cold and calculating eyes.

_Cupid draw back your bow, and let your arrow flow..._

"Could have fooled me."

Granted, it wasn't the conventional way for two people to meet and feel some kind of attraction, but it once again proved that Sherlock Holmes was not made of stone as he would like the world to believe, and it wasn't exactly the best of timing, but then again, these things rarely were.

_No wonder he got bend out of shape._

Poor man, he must have felt terribly betrayed, especially after she had actually told him to his face, not once, but twice, that she trusted him.

Again Holmes glared at his friend.

"It's me you're talking to, Sherlock. I know you. I've seen you around Cass, and you're different somehow. Kinder, softer. Gentle, sensitive, even tender, and I don't think it was all an act just to butter her up."

"Tosh!"

Watson continued, disregarding the sour, outraged expression on Holmes' face.

"I've never seen you behave like that before. I was there when Irene, you know, you and she were dancing around each other, and the sexual tension the two of you were generating was actually quite uncomfortable, palpable, and you were never like _that_ with her, and I know she got to you, mate, so don't deny it. But this is different. _You're_ different, with Cass," He observed, his voice gentle, indicating that it was not an admonishment. "You might not have known it, but you've actually been quite restrained with her."

"Rubbish," However, Holmes' response lacked the previous venom, and now there was a thoughtful frown drawing down his brow as he thought back to his dealings with Cassia Ingram.

"I've seen you with Molly too. I've seen the way you treat that poor girl. You know she fancies you, and you use your charms on her to get what you want out of her, in the lab, and then you change your tune. You've been deliberately cruel with her more than once to my knowledge, leading her on, then dropping her like a hot cake."

"I have not..."

"Yes you have, and it's not fair on the poor girl. Put her out of her misery, Sherlock. Stop leading her on, leaving her gagging, and then pouring cold water over her. She deserves better than that. She's a better friend to you than you are to her, so treat her kindly if nothing else, and don't give her false hope."

"Have you quite finished?"

"With you and Molly, yes. But as for Cass... It wouldn't be a bad thing, Sherlock, if you did fancy her, I mean. You're only human..."

"Perish the thought!" Holmes growled sharply.

"What, that you are human, or God forbid, that you could actually fancy an attractive, intelligent, articulate young woman?"

"Look John, you of all people should know my views about love and marriage and romance. You ask if I like Cass? Alright, then I would have to say yes, she is very likeable, and yes, all those things that you just said, but I do not _fancy_ her," He explained in low tones.

"I admire her strength and tenacity and her courage. But, I do not fancy her. In fact, I have no thoughts about it either way. I have more important things on my mind, and I do not want, nor do I have the time for romance."

"I know the timing isn't fantastic ..."

"You are mistaken."

"Suit yourself, you sad git."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I think the man doth protest too much..."

"Rubbish!"

"Like I said, suit yourself, Spock."

"I wish that you would stop comparing me to a fictional television character."

"Then stop acting like you don't have emotions. It's me, remember. I think I know you as well as anyone can, by now, and I know that it's not that you_ can't_ feel. You can, and you do, but for some reason, you choose not to _allow _yourself to feel. One of these days, it's going to blow up in your face. There's a reason human beings have emotions and needs and drives, Sherlock, and the longer you ignore them, or bury them, the more chance there is, sooner or later, you're going to suffer the consequences."

"Thank you, doctor..."

"You claim to be a high functioning sociopath, high functioning, yes, a high functioning pillock! You are human, flesh and blood, with hormones and emotions, just like the rest of us, and, deny it all you want, you do have needs, physical and emotional, just like the rest of us..."

"Yes, yes, I know. If you prick me do I not bleed?"

"Yes, you do. I've seen it. Not blue, and not exactly claret either, just bog standard red like the rest of us. You are no different to me. Loving someone, even liking them won't spoil your ability to think and reason, it won't mar your deductive reasoning. A little empathy might even help you, Sherlock..."

_Now where had he heard that before, only a few hours ago too? _Sherlock thought sourly.

"I _like_ her. That should suffice."

That was a start.

"Well, at least you're not denying that you do feel _something_."

"Do you think she likes me?"

Holmes suddenly asked in a quiet voice, suddenly coy, and Watson was surprised by the question.

_Oh boy..._

_Maybe I wasn't so wide of the mark after all..._

_If he doesn't feel anything for her, why should it matter to him if she likes him or not?_

_Maybe he senses something too, and isn't too sure of his interpretation right now._

_Well, well, well ..._

But what to tell him without making him run a mile, or quash the delicate new feelings that he might actually have for Cassia Ingram?

"How the hell should I know? I barely know what my own wife thinks, much less what is on Cassia's mind, but, I will tell you this, when she was in trouble, when she was at her most vulnerable and most afraid, when she was terrified and at her wits end, it was you she came to, and not because of your ruddy deductive reasoning!" Watson pointed out with the hint of a smile on his lips. "Fancy you? Hell, why not. Miracles are possible I suppose. It's not beyond the realms of possibility my friend. know it or not, you are a good looking fellow, and you have certain charms, when you put your mind to it. "

"Very drool. Where are you going?" Holmes demanded now as Watson slung his jacket around his shoulders and headed for the door.

"To look for Cass. She's been out a bit too long, all alone out there in the big city, and its dark now. I'm worried for her safety. Anything could happen to her..."

He let his voice trail off then, allowing Holmes to infer that if anything bad did happen to Cassia Ingram, it would be his fault for driving her out into the night, whilst also wondering if he would rise to the bait.

If he did like her, he should be just as concerned as Watson himself was, and wouldn't be able to hide it.

"I'll come with you..."

_Ah ha!_

_Cupid's arrow found it's mark, has it?_

_Is that why you were so upset, so resentful when you found out that she isn't exactly whom she claims to be?_

_You poor fool. _

_Welcome to the human race!_

_Not a machine after all._

_Oh God, Sherlock in love..._

Well, it would be different!

But if he decided to throw himself in to that like he did everything else, God help them all!

At the very thought that Cassia might be in danger, Holmes made to rise out of his chair, suddenly showing just how concerned he really was about Cassia himself, despite his earlier denials, his own problems forgotten, until he found that his legs were still weak and wobbly and his stomach was still very delicate.

"No you won't." Watson spoke softly now. "You're not up to it, physically. I'll be ok. I can handle myself on the mean streets." He grinned. "And in the meantime, Romeo, you're going to stay here and think of an apology for Cass, and when she gets here, you're going to deliver that apology and make it sound as sincere as you can," Watson told him in no uncertain terms, knowing as he did so that he might as well be talking to the wall behind Sherlock, but perhaps it would be food for thought for his friend, as he walked toward the living room door. "Then, hopefully, we'll all have a chance to get some shut eye before the real fun begins.


	33. Chapter 33

_**Chapter Thirty Three.**_

As he exited 221B Baker Street, John Watson glanced both ways, up and down the street, trying to decide which way to try first in his search for Cassia Ingram, and then decided to head down the street, pulling his coat collar up around his ears as he did so, for the wind had suddenly picked up, running it's icy fingers between his coat and his shirt collar.

There was more activity down that end of the street as there were shops that stayed open late, various takeaway food establishments and access to public transport.

If Cassia had any street sense at all, she would have wanted to stick to places that were well lit and had plenty of people around, for there would be less chance of anything nasty transpiring that way.

_Safety in numbers._

_Or the pack mentallity._

Pick pockets and the like often hunted in pairs, he knew.

That thought spurred him on, and he increased the speed of his step.

He found her a short time later, hunched up inside her coat, against the chilly breeze and the damp night air, sitting on a bench beside an empty bus stop, the disturbance of air caused by passing traffic kicking up bit of litter in the kerb and tossing them around her feet.

John decided to approach her warily, as she seemed to be lost in thought, and he did not want to frighten her, so as he closed in he gave a soft cough into a balled fist, announcing his presence well before he reached her, and she swiftly looked around, wary, an anxious look on her face until she realized who it was.

"Hello," John greeted her in soft tones.

"Hello yourself."

"Are you ok?" He asked with genuine concern as he sat down beside her.

She looked cold, miserable, exhausted and deflated.

"Yes."

"Liar."

"Yes." She smiled softly. "And not a very good one, it seems."

"I'm sorry about Holmes behaviour. I'd like to say that it's due to his illness, but I'd be wasting my breath, wouldn't I? You know he's like that most of the time."

"Yes. I know."

She gave a soft sigh and sat back on the bench, straightening her back and stretching out her legs before her, crossing them at the ankles.

"It's just the way he is, I suppose. Quick silver. Lightening in a bottle. Brilliant, yet bordering on madness..."

"Yes."

Watson could not help thinking that that had summed his friend up in a nutshell.

It was something that worried him too.

The fact that Holmes danced a little too close to the flame of madness when he was working on a case, the lack of self control, the single mindedness.

"How is he?"

"Sick as a dog and feeling pretty damned ssorry for himself last I looked, but it serves him right."

"Oh."

"Look, Cass, there's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to... well, say it. While you've been out, Sherlock sort of lost the plot, he had a bit of a wobbler, and the long and the short of it is, he went through your things."

"Kinky."

"No, not like that." Watson clarified quickly. "He was looking for some form of ID, something to tell him who you really are. He knows you're not Cassia Ingram, whoever she might be ..."

"He won't find anything."

"I know. He didn't. I told him he was well out of order, but ..."

"He doesn't think he did anything wrong. He can justify it by telling himself that he has every right to know everything about everyone. Paranoid git. He sees enemies around every corner, doesn't he?

"Not exactly enemies, but he has trusted people in the past who it turns out have turned on him, or used him. He likes to know everything that he can about his clients, simply because he wants to avoid being stabbed in the back by someone he is supposedly working for. People have their own agendas, and they are not always what they seem to be."

"Touche."

She sighed heavily and scuffed her feet on the paving stone.

"So, it looks like normal service has been resumed."

"Mmmmm."

"Thanks for the warning," she gave another deep sigh and moved her position on the bench, the slats of the seat uncomfortable, cold and hard beneath her buttocks.

"The least I could do. I wish I could tie him up and gag him and let you stick pins in him for the rest of the night, but he's so hard he probably wouldn't feel it, or he'd think it was ruddy accupuncture for his tumour!"

Cassia turned to face him and gave him a weak smile, appreciating his attempt at levity.

"He just can't seem to take anything on face value, can he?"

"No," John grew serious again now. "I guess he learned his lessons the hard way. He doesn't even really trust his brother."

"I know. Sibling rivalry to the extreme."

She sighed once more and turned to regard Watson with sad, big green eyes, and he decided not to ask just how she knew about Holmes' unconventional relationship with his older brother.

"You know, it shouldn't really be that hard to take anything or anyone on face value when you're in the habit of seeing every tiny detail of a person's life and personality written all over their clothes and in their mannerisms, but he does."

"I knew you had him weighed up," Watson grinned.

"Everything always has to have a different agenda, some kind of sinister sub plot. He can't just focus on what he sees, there has to be something deeper."

"Yup," he agreed casually. "Look, Cass, _I_ understand. _I _can take you at face value."

"I know. You've been very kind, John. He's damn lucky to have you as a friend."

"Sometimes I wonder why I bother."

"But you do."

"Yes, God help me..."

"He's an odd fish, but he is what he is and you accept that."

Watson nodded.

He decided that she deserved to know why Sherlock had been so cold and insensitive toward her all evening.

Again, it was the least that he could do.

_Fore armed is fore warned..._

"He thinks you're hiding something. He thinks that you are deliberately deceiving him, and as you say, in his mind, there has to be something sinister in it."

"I'm not, and there isn't. It isn't just him, or you, John," she confessed on a long, ragged breath and tried to make herself even smaller inside her coat.

"We know. He's worked that much out."

"Good for him. I hope he's happy."

"Not really. It's still a puzzle that needs to be solved."

"Why can't he just leave well alone?"

"Because he's Sherlock Holmes, a legend in his own lunchbox."

She gave a gentle snort of amusement, but then her expression changed to sorrow once more.

"A relentless bastard."

"That too."

"I have my reasons for doing what I do, John. Good reasons."

"And they're none of our business," Watson acknowledged in soft, gentle tones. "And I told him that too, but..."

"But Holmes thinks they are, and he won't let go until he drags it out of me."

"I know."

"So, I'm going to let him."

"What?" Watson frowned.

"I'm going to let him drag it out of me, let him think he's won, or at least dangle a carrot in front of him that he can't resist. A promise to spill the beans when all this is over and the dust has settled."

"You don't have to do that, Cass. Just tell him to piss off. You wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last."

"It won't make any difference," she again scuffed the heels of her shoes against the paving stone beneath her feet. "You know I'm right. He'll still keep pursuing it, except he'll act like it's all over and done with and forgotten about, and meanwhile, behind our backs, he'll still be digging away, and for my peace of mind, I can't afford for him to do that."

Watson knew that she was right about Holmes.

He would pretend that he had put it out of his mind, while all the time he would be ferreting around for some small snippet of information until he got to the bottom of her secret, and he would not once consider if he had any right to discover it.

"I've already made up my mind, John, but, I don't intend to make it easy on him."

"Good for you."

He reached out and gently patted her hand comfortingly now.

Her hand was cold, and he realized that she was shivering inside her coat.

"C'mon, it's getting nippy out here. It will start raining soon, no doubt."

"No doubt."

However, she made no effort to move, and Watson realized that she was already thinking about the confrontation with Holmes, and, what was expected of her later that night.

"Look, Cass, you really don't have to do this. I could go back and tell Holmes that I couldn't find you..."

"But then he'd come looking for me himself."

"True."

"Besides, where else can I go? I'm a walking time bomb. A liability, and if I'm honest, I really don't want to be alone, especially when I go to sleep."

"I could always slip him a sleeping pill. Hell, I might just do that anyway. We could all do with a little peace and quiet."

He grinned, and then grew more serious as he regarded her exhausted face.

"Actually, Cass, that's something that you might consider. You definitely need some quality rest, and, you might not dream in a chemically induced sleep."

"No, John. It's alright. Thank you for the thought, and any other time, I might agree with you about putting Holmes to sleep, but my preference would be to hit him with a ruddy great spade, right in the mush," she smiled weakly then.

"Maybe I could sneak you into the Operating Room and you could be his new anaesthatist!"

Cassia smiled weakly, however, there was no real amusement in her expression, but there was suddenly a genuine sadness in her eyes, and Watson realized that that wasn't really funny.

"Don't tempt me..." she murmured softly, deciding to go along with his humour so as not to affend him, but didn't quite pull it off because of the quiver of emotion that suddenly made her voice crack.

_Oh Lord..._

_Was he right?_

_Did she feel something for Holmes too?_

_Nice diagnosis, doctor!_

"But," she let out a long, ragged breath then. "I want to do it, John. I need to do it, and I'm ready. We have to do this now. This killer has to be stopped, and we both know that despite his promises, to both of us, Sherlock won't let it go until it's over. So let's get on with it, and get it over and done with."

She really was a sweetheart.

All her concern for Holmes, and none for herself.

Such a pity that Holmes would never appreciate her affection and would probably continue to deny that he felt anything at all for her except respect and admiration.

_Souless, heartless loser._

_Ah, the course of true love..._

_Pity her affections would all be wasted on Sherlock._

Maybe he was wrong.

Maybe he was reading too much into it, and what she actually felt for Holmes was merely pity at his sudden illness.

But, he didn't think so.

"Cass, can I ask you something ... personal?"

"That would depend on the question, John."

"Do you like him? Sherlock?"

Even when she had been describing him, she had not been cruel or derogatory, she had simply stated the truth about him and there had been something gentle and warm in her eyes when she spoke of him.

"Mmmmmm."

Cassia grew thoughtful, dropping her head briefly, allowing the curtain of her hair to fall forward over her face for a moment, and then she raised her head and used her fingers to tuck her bangs back behind her ears.

"I know, tough question, and none of my business..." Watson chuckled then, rising from the bench and offering Cassia his hand to help her to her feet as they were both suddenly buffeted by a draft of wind caused by a passing double decker bus.

"I don't _dislike_ him," she accepted his hand and rose slowly as she was feeling a bit stiff after sitting in the chilly night air for so long and was grateful for his support as the gust of wind caused her to wobble and sway, briefly.

_Another one who obviously doesn't like to admit to being human!_

_What is it with these two for crying out loud!_

"And I suspect that rankles with him. He tries to so hard to make people dislike him, because it's easier for him. He doesn't want anyone to get close to him, because then he might have to try to make an effort to be civilized, and show his true social ineptitude," she continued as they began to walk back toward Baker Street.

"God forbid, he might even show his true self, and that would be the end of the world, that image he's developed of himself for so long, destroyed in seconds. When you and he first started sharing the flat, I bet he really had to bite his tongue sometimes, he had to try to be civil because he needed you to stay, to help with the rent, and then with the cases. Let me ask you, did you like him when you first met?"

"Actually, I thought he was an arrogant, upper class tosser."

"Until he demonstrated his unique ability to see the things that no-one else can, even though they are in plain sight."

"Yes."

"And you grew to like him. You tolerated his antics, because you saw something worthwhile in him."

"Yes."

"Well, so do I. But that's not really what you're asking, is it? You don't really mean like, you mean, fancy..."

"Sorry..."

He had the good grace to look a little shamefaced.

"Well, he is an attractive man. The good Lord and excellent genes certainly put him together in a very agreeable package."

"And then he opens his mouth."

"Mmmmm. Actually, I haven't given it much thought..."

She suddenly stopped walking then and turned to look at Watson with a look that spoke volumes to him.

_Oh boy ..._

_And what merry dance we shall have!_

"Oh hell, yes I have and is the Pope Catholic?" she confessed on a ragged breath, tears suddenly springing to her eyes, although he couldn't be sure if they were caused by the sudden gust of frigid wind that whipped up around them and raised the dust off the pavement beneath their feet, or if they were caused by something else.

"But what good does that do either of us? I'm human. A normal, healthy young woman with all that goes along with it, but that was not what brought me to Holmes door. It has no relevance here and now."

She paused to draw in a ragged breath.

"I admire what I see, both the physical beauty, and the mental prowess and his strong sense of right and wrong. The way he goes about things is a different kettle of fish, and his attitude, frankly, it stinks, but, he's never had anyone to stand up to him and try to make him see a different angle or point of view. That is what you do for him, John, and he is learning."

"I'm glad I'm good for something."

"Yes he's pompous, arrogant and insensitive, but something made him that way. I really don't think that he was born like that. I think that somehow, he must have been deeply hurt, and now he gets his retaliation in before anyone can hurt him. It's easier for him somehow if he rubs people up the wrong way. He knows how to deal with hostility. It's affection and sympathy and empathy that he can't deal with. You just have to get to the bottom of that, and perhaps you'll find the real Sherlock Holmes under all that bravado and bluster and superiority."

She paused to take a breath, another gust of icy wind tugging a strand of her hair across her cheek, and as she pushed it back behind her ear, and then wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand, Watson realized that what she was saying made sense.

He too had had a sense that something had deeply hurt his young friend and that Holmes kept the world at arm's length because he feared that he could not cope with a similar kind of hurt ever again.

Holmes could be as insensitive as a brick, but there had also been times when Watson had caught a glimpse, if only fleetingly, of his more human, sensitive nature.

He'd seen Sherlock laugh, and cry, he'd seen him completely at a loss because he had no longer been able to trust himself, to maintain his detachment, and he had seen him forsake his own life to save those of the people that he held dear.

Well, sort of.

It had felt pretty real, and it was something that Watson did not ever want to go through again.

He had stood at his friend's graveside and told him that he was the most human, human that he had ever known, and it had been true.

It still was.

"I happen to think he's worth giving it a go. We all have defence mechanisms, a need for self preservation. For Holmes it's the face he presents to the world. Rigid. Hard. Austere. Superior. Arctic. He denies that he has feelings, claims that he does not have the ability to empathize with other human beings, but that isn't strictly true, it's just that he has made a conscious decision not to allow himself to get close to anyone, that way he doesn't have to try to reciprocate, and he won't make himself vulnerable, or get burned."

They began to walk once more, hurrying now out of the chill and the damp as a fine mist of drizzly rain began to tumble from the skies.

"On the other hand, you stuck around and took all the crap, the prickliness, the disdain, the arrogance, and in doing so, you've discovered for yourself that he is not always what he seems, that there are greater depths to him than he would like to allow anyone to see, except you."

"You too."

"Me?"

She seemed surprised.

"You seem to have summed him up nicely, and believe it or not, I've seen a different side to Sherlock when he's with you. You might not believe it, but this is quite tame for him. He's toned it down a lot, and I know he's trying to behave. You've made a stronger impression on him than either of you realize."

"I never judge a book by its cover John. I only have the evidence of my eyes and my instinct. He thinks he's such a hard man, but underneath... He would be devastated if he ever showed any sign of weakness to the world."

And allowing himself to love anyone would be a show of weakness.

_Oh Sherlock, you berk..._

"That remains to be seen. Anyway, I told him he needs to apologize for his behaviour tonight, and for invading your privacy, but I have a feeling that getting it out of him will be like pulling teeth."

"At least he _might_ make the effort. That has to count for something, even if he doesn't mean it. He knows it's the right thing to do, for appearances sake, if nothing else, and if he's going to defuse the situation and get what he really wants."

"Exactly."

"But, I'm not holding my breath."

"Me neither."

"And no-one said I have to make it easy for him."

"Go get him, tiger!"

"But do I fancy him?" she returned to his question and gave it further consideration, briefly.

"Mmmm. If I'm honest, I don't know what I feel, John. I've been alone for so long, I've forgotten how that feels. Besides, I don't consider myself to be fanciable. I haven't been in the company of any men for such a long time, you seem like a different species to me, I'm afraid. I don't know how I'm supposed to react, how men are supposed to react to me. I've never considered myself attractive or sexy and so I wouldn't know how to deal with any man trying to make me believe that I am either of those things. I don't look to put myself in a situation where I might misunderstand, or get hurt."

Another of life's innocents...

Yearning for love and affection, yet not knowing how to offer it or accept it.

Or even recognize it when it was right under their noses!

_Was whatever it was that she was hiding another reason for denying herself love?_

Watson could not help wondering.

He had often suspected that that was behind Sherlock's decision to remain single and celebate.

Oh yes, he spouted on about the statistics on record, of wives or girlfriends killing their husbands or significant others, and never putting himself in that position, but after the Reichenbach thing with Moriarity, Sherlock had also been more focused on protecting those who he was close to, and Watson realized that a girlfriend, or even a wife, would make a prime target to get to Holmes, to be used against him.

As a newly married man, Watson could relate to that.

He'd thought long and hard about it since Holmes' return, and he had fallen in love with Mary.

What if another maniac like Moriaty showed up and tried to use her to get to himself, or Holmes?

It didn't bear thinking about.

If losing Holmes had almost been his undoing, losing Mary would kill him.

"Like Sherlock."

"The world can be a cruel place, John, if you are just the tiniest bit different to everyone else," he could tell from the sudden catch in her voice that she was speaking from experience now. "And you have to admit, Holmes is off the scale as far as being different is concerned."

"You're an attractive girl, Cass. I could fancy you... That is, if I weren't already married... I'll just shut up before I dig myself an even deeper hole, shall I?"

"Good idea, although, I am flattered, John. Thank you."

Cassia smiled more warmly now as they drew closer to 221B Baker Street.

"As for Sherlock, what does it matter if I like him or he likes me? There's no prospect of it going anywhere, for either of us. After this business is over, I'll probably never see him again."

As they arrived on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street at last, and Cassia handed over his doorkey, which was still warm from being curled up in her hand, John Watson could not help thinking that that would be a terrible, crying shame, for both of them.

But then again, he was a newly married man, and he was constantly being teased by his medical colleagues that it was natural that he would want all of his friends to know such happiness and contentment and fulfillment.

And Sherlock was, after all, perhaps his closest, dearest friend.

What a man he would be, basking in the warmth of the love of the right woman, of that, John Watson had no doubt.

Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to have made up his mind that there was no room for such a thing in his life, and there was an end to it.


	34. Note from author

_**NOTE:**_ I regret that I have not been able to update this story for a while, I am still working on it, but due to health issues and an ailing computer, it has not been possible for me to get as much done as I had hoped.

The computer is now going in for a good service and clean so hopefully when I get it back I will be able to get back on track.

Please forgive me, and be patient, I've actually written the end of the story, but have to join it up with the rest. I will not let you down, you have all been so supportive and encouraging, so, when I am able, I will get it finished, and I continue to be both amazed and thrilled by the reaction I have got from you readers. Thank you.


	35. Chapter 35

_**Chapter Thirty Four.**_

Watson and Cassia climbed the stairs up to Holmes' flat, Watson going ahead and Cassia following, trudging up the stairs with a weary step, a wary mood and trepidation in her heart, each wondering what they would find.

Independently, both found themselves hoping that Holmes would be feeling better and that there had been no recurrence of his sickness whilst they had been gone, while secretly, they each feared a repeat of the earlier fainting incident.

However, they found to their surprise that Holmes had not been idle during their absence. He had sought out fresh bedding, blankets, one for each of them, and a couple of fat, fluffy pillows for whoever got to sleep on the couch.

As they entered the living room, they found it empty, but they were not overly concerned for they could hear Holmes moving around in the kitchen, and upon hearing them return, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Cocoa?"

Both Watson and Cassia nodded their agreement, both feeling the need to wrap their chilled hands around something warm and comforting.

"Need any help?" Cassia offered, presenting Holmes with an opening, hoping that whilst they were alone together in the kitchen, he would use the opportunity to offer her some semblance of an apology, but, if he did not, then she would be able to try to broach the possibility of reaching some sort of agreement with him about her circumstances and his need to unearth her so called 'secret'.

As he stood in the kitchen door way, however, Cassia thought that Holmes looked anything but apologetic or contrite.

Despite his usual distain and a hint of belligerence, he did still look lousy though, pale and drawn, his suffering obvious in his unique eyes and in the deep lines etched into his brow, and, now that she was back in his indomitable presence, her own headache was back with a vengeance.

_Poor sod._

Knowing how dreadful he must be feeling, and what he was facing when daylight arrived, Cassia found it hard to be truly angry with Sherlock Holmes for long.

That didn't mean that he didn't know which buttons to push to ignite her temper, of course.

He did.

However, she had never been one to harbour a grudge, although, Holmes was sorely trying her patience in that department.

What was it Maddie had said?

The immoveable object and the irristable force.

How true.

She had the feeling that whenever she encountered Mr Holmes their dealings would always result in a big bang!

It would never be boring or dull.

On any other occasion, she might have enjoyed sparring with him, verbally and mentally, but right now, here in this moment, she was too weak, too mentally and emotionally drained to put up more than a token resistance.

_Let the genius think he's won, if it gets you a bit of time and space to pull yourself together and get your strength back for the_ _ordeal ahead._

_A temperary reprieve._

He was what he was, after all.

Instead of being angry with him, despite her continuing frustration with him, she found herself admiring him more.

_To thine own self be true..._

He didn't pretend to be anything other than the man that he was, and he saw no need to apologize for the way he was either.

What you saw was most definitely what you got.

Take it or leave it.

Like it or lump it.

Yes.

He was what he was.

There could be no middle ground with Holmes, and he was something of an acquired taste, like Caviar, or Marmite. You either liked it, or loathed it, and Cassia could not deny, that despite everything that she had seen and heard, she liked him.

It was time for a truce.

Perhaps she could persuade him that he was making a mountain of a mole hill, that her life was insignificant and not worth his bothering about.

She was neither a criminal, nor a victim, and there was nothing for him to concern himself with in the way she chose to live her life.

However, she doubted it.

She could see it in the glittering of his eyes and the set of his jaw.

He was determined to know.

The very fact that he knew that she was hiding _something_, that she was not whom she claimed to be, was like a red rag to a bull.

He would never let go.

He would make a much better ally than an enemy, and it looked as if he had his heart set on getting to the bottom of her secret, no matter what the consequences, to either of them.

Meanwhile, John Watson was aiming pointed, meaningful looks at Holmes as he took off his damp coat and slung it on the back of a nearby chair, however, Holmes was doing his best to ignore his friend.

"Please yourself," Holmes' intoned with a half shrug of his shoulders, in reply to Cassia's question, then turned around and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Cassia gave Watson a warm, reassuring smile as she too shrugged out of her coat and fluffed up her slightly damp hair, and then after hanging the coat up on the peg on the back of the door, alongside Holmes own heavy coat, she went to join Sherlock in the kitchen.

She found him setting out three mugs and a sugar bowl on to a familiar tray.

"There are some things I wanted to clarify with you," Holmes spoke, not turning around to face her, as she entered the kitchen.

_Was this where she got her apology?_

"Before we all settle for the night."

_Meaning, before you dream, and all hell threatens to break loose._

"Oh."

He must have heard the note of disappointment in her tone and turned around to look at her at last.

"I need to know if there is a chance that this man, our killer, is aware of you, psychically, that is. You told John and I that you are able to feel what he feels, that you feared that he might be able to control you and make you do what he is doing, so, I have to know, does it work in reverse? Is it possible that he is aware of you and your interest in him?"

"I don't think so."

She gave an involuntary shudder of revulsion at the very idea.

"But you can't be sure?"

He continued to probe, regarding her intensely.

"I'm not worried that he might come after me, Sherlock, if that is what you are thinking," she spoke softly, but her tone was neutral, devoid of any kind of emotion and she kept her expression relaxed and calm.

Holmes found that he did indeed believe her.

She had never expressed any concern for her own well being, only for that of others who might be unfortunate enough to be in the same room with her when she dreamed.

"That did occur to me," he confided, something in his eyes softening, just for a second.

"However, it also crossed my mind that if he is aware of your interest in him, that he might realize that the heat is on, and that he may go to ground and lay low until he feels that any interest is well and truly over."

"I'd thought of that too, Sherlock. I don't get any sense that he is afraid of being discovered," she explained.

"But he still might decide to keep a low profile for a while."

"Yes, he might, but, I don't think so. The need to kill is just too strong. He can't fight it anymore."

_Just as I can't fight you..._

"One other thing, is there any possibility that you might be able to influence him, his actions, that you might be able to intervene and prevent him from killing?"

"No."

Holmes actually saw her cringe.

It was a simple statement, spoken in a low, cold voice, but the shudder that ran the length of her body, and the expression on her face told Holmes that the mere idea was terrifying for her.

"If I could, don't you think I would have tried?" she asked, through clenched teeth.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to infer that you haven't done enough to prevent his killing spree."

"I should damn well hope not, Sherlock!" she snapped back. "I have done everything that I know how to try to stop him, to try to get someone to believe me and do something about it..."

"I know," Holmes tried to placate, but it was clear that he had hit a nerve and that she was angry with him.

"How could you even ask such a thing, Sherlock?" She asked in incredulity now, her green eyes full of disappointment and shock that he could think something like that of her, the gold specks in the irises fizzing with anger.

"Forgive me. I mis-spoke."

His tone was gentle now.

However, Cassia could not help feeling that he was deliberately goading her, trying to make her lower her guard so she would say something that she had not intended about her true identity and the life that she was trying to conceal from him and the world.

"You're upset with me? I don't need to be psychic to know that. You've been glaring at me all evening, ignoring me, or having a dig, and I simply don't understand why, but, I had thought that you knew how serious I am about this. I thought you knew how this is tearing me apart..."

"I do. I shouldn't have..."

"No, you shouldn't!"

"Very well. I'm sorry," Holmes reiterated, but there was little repentance in his expression of his tone of voice.

"Is there anything else you want to know, about how this psychic link works?" She demanded angrily now.

"Do I know what he's planning and when he's going to make his next move?" She sneered at him now, letting him know that he wasn't the only one who could turn ugly if necessary, and that she did not appreciate his attitude.

However, even as he opened his mouth, she continued before he had a chance to speak.

"No dammit, I don't! I can't get in to his head, Sherlock, and I don't want to, thank you very much!" She announced in a high pitched voice.

Realizing that her raised voice might attract the attention of John Watson, and suddenly aware that Holmes was beginning to enjoy her discomfort, Cassia drew in a long calming breath and tried to reign in her emotions.

"I can't stop him invading my dreams and my visions, but it's not something I know is going to happen ahead of time anyway. Frankly, it's never happened to me before, and I'm baffled by it. I do everything in my power to try to protect myself from being taken over by a soul who has passed over, but he's very much alive, and I don't know how he's doing what he is, or why my usual protections are not strong enough to block him," she spoke more calmly now, needing Holmes to understand the reality of the situation.

"I don't have any control over this. I am an antenna, a conduit. Either the veil opens and I dream, or have visions, or it does not. That's why I'm so concerned about what you are hoping will happen here tonight, Sherlock. You're placing far too much stock on my ability to influence proceedings. It doesn't work like that, and I can't. Either spirit will co-operate, and allow me to do what you want, or they won't. If they decide to protect me, to block me, there is nothing that I can do. It's not up for negotiation either. I can't just turn it on or off like a switch. They show me what they think I need to see, when I need to see it."

"I will bear that in mind."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to think that I was deliberately being awkward or unco-operative," she replied sarcastically.

"Thank you for explaining the situation to me."

However, Cassia got the distinct impression that she had been wasting her breath and that he still believed that between them they would be able to manipulate her dream or vision.

_You supremely arrogant and utterly conceited tosser!_

They remained silent for several long seconds, staring each other out, until Cassia finally decided to break the uncomfortable silence, needing to do something with her hands, before she took a swing at him and punched him in the jaw.

"What can I do?"

"Actually, thinking about it, I don't believe that it would be wise for me handle hot liquids," Holmes gave her a half smile and a wry look, and then moved his gaze, briefly, down to his bandaged wrist.

"No. I agree. You don't want to end up wearing it again."

_Unless I'm the one throwing it in your face!_

"Then perhaps, if you don't mind, would you see to the milk? I've already got it all ready on the hob."

"Fine."

Suddenly there was another tense, uneasy silence, and Cassia, growing more and more uncomfortable, unusually, felt the need to fill the silence, trying to delay the moment when she would have to speak to him about his delving into her life.

"I noticed we were running a bit low on milk earlier, and while I was out, I went into a shop to buy some, then I realized I didn't have any money with me."

"I suppose it was the thought that counts. John can nip out to the newsagents in the morning if need be."

Cassia walked over to the cooker and turned on the hotplate under the small saucepan of milk, while Holmes finished setting up the tray and added a plate of plain biscuits.

They worked in an uneasy silence, until, finally, unable to bear the tension, both turned from their tasks to face each other, and spoke in unison.

"Look, Sherlock..."

"Cassia..."

Cassia gave a small, nervous laugh, and then quickly returned her attention to the milk heating in the saucepan on the hob.

"Ladies first," Sherlock invited, in sarcastic tones.

_Oh boy, you really are the absolute limit!_

_He really was spoiling for a fight._

"Fine," she spoke through clenched teeth as she half turned away from the stove, mindful of the heating contents of the saucepan and faced him, side on.

He had a cold, ruthless expression on his face, and she knew instantly that he suspected that he knew that she knew all about his actions while she had been out and that he was not sorry at all about what he had done.

She gave a deep sigh.

"John told me what happened, that you went through my things..."

Holmes made no response.

No big surprise there.

He had suspected as much.

_Ever the boy scout, Watson. Ever the officer and genteman._

There would be no denial, no apology forthcoming any time soon, Cassia realized as she took in his haughty expression and now cold eyes.

"I know what you were looking for," she continued after another quick glance at the saucepan on the hob. "And I know that you didn't find it."

"Indeed," Holmes confirmed coldly.

"Why?"

"You know why," Holmes countered quickly. "I felt it necessary."

"But _why_ is it necessary, Sherlock?"

He did not answer her, but continued to regard her with cold, suspicious eyes.

"The way I heard it, you had a tantrum and threw my toys out of your pram."

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the that the milk in the saucepan was beginning to come to the boil, showing signs of climbing up the sides of the pan, so she turned off the hotplate and moved the saucepan to a cold ring at the back of the stove, resisting the urge to throw the hot milk all over Sherlock Holmes as she did so.

"Did it make you feel better?"

No reply.

"Well, did it? You got yourself all worked up, and made yourself sick to boot. So, was it worth it?"

She asked again, leaning back against the stove, carefully avoiding burning herself on the still warm hotplate.

Still no reply.

"I don't think so. And I don't understand why you are so angry and outraged, Sherlock. I don't understand why it is so damned important to you to try to dig up what you obviously consider to be my 'dirty little secret'. If there is such a thing, it has nothing to do with you, or with this case, the reason we are trying to work together."

She spoke calmly now, her tone reasonable, meeting his steely blue/grey gaze with steady, unwavering green eyes. Her previous anger apparently dissipated.

"I've never lied to you, Sherlock. Indeed, I've gone out of my way to be as straight and up front with you as I could. I thought that I had gained your trust, but now it seems that the rules of your silly little game have changed, and we're back to square one, and I have to win your trust all over again."

"No. Not quite square one," he corrected. "I do not doubt that you have a genuine gift."

"Well, thanks for that, if nothing else."

Her tone was sarcastic.

"And I still trust you in that."

"Well whoopee ding bloody dong!" she muttered darkly. "So why isn't that enough for you, Sherlock?" she demanded now. "Why are you so determined to go digging around in what you consider to be my dirty laundry, to find the skeleton you believe is lurking in my closet?"

"I prefer to know with whom I am dealing, what drives them, and what their true motivation might be. People lie. Often they don't even realize that they are doing it. Little white lies are a rule of thumb these days just to get people through the day."

"I have _never_ lied to you, Sherlock."

"You're very appearance is a lie!" He accused.

"What?"

"The way you look, dress, every inch of your appearance is a lie. You don't know it, but there is absolutely nothing truthful in the way you present your physical self to the world."

_That's rich coming from you!_

"Really?" she was surprised.

He was right.

She didn't know that she was hiding her true self, if indeed she was, until he had just said so.

It had been so long since she had had need to be her true self with anyone other than a few select friends that she probably had forgotten who her true self was.

_Did that make her a liar?_

"Oh, I see, it's because you can't do that wonderful observation thing on me, that's what narks you, isn't it? You can't show off how brilliant you. You're frustrated because I'm not as transparent as most people are to your practiced eye, aren't you? Did it ever occur to you that what you do, although utterly brilliant, is also intrusive and insulting?"

"No, it hasn't."

"Well, it is. You tried it on me the very first day we met, but you were disappointed, weren't you."

Cassia gave him a weak smile.

"I didn't do it deliberately, if that's any consolation. This is me. This is who and what I am, Sherlock. Just a nothing little nobody from nowhere, trying to live a quiet, simple life,"she declared. "So, here I am, standing right here, what do you know about me?" she challenged.

"Next to nothing."

"No, not what you know about my life, just from looking at me, Sherlock. I mean, what do you _know_ about _me_?"

Holmes regarded her with cold, analytical eyes, as he realized what she was truly asking him.

_What did he see?_

_What did he feel?_

_What had he learned about her as a woman, from having spent time with her?_

Well, he knew that she was outspoken, tenacious, and that she had a conscience.

She was no meek wallflower either.

She was intelligent, articulate, charming, amiable and caring.

She was affectionate too.

She was also strong, mentally and emotionally.

She had stood up to him, more than once, faced down his cynicism and his arrogance, fighting for what she believed in, and what she knew to be right.

In many ways, she had laid herself wide open to him, and he knew that she was a good woman, full of good intentions.

She had a genuinely good heart.

And a beautiful soul.

And yet, there was something that she was concealing, not just from him, but from the whole world, and he knew that he could not, would not rest until he learned what it was that was so dark, so threatening, so awful, that it made her hide away from the world.

What it was that had made her turn her back on life and try to lose herself.

Yet, even he did not really understand why it mattered so much to him.

But it did.

_Unless..._

If she was in trouble, in danger, then perhaps he might be able to help her, protect her...

_Yes._

_That was it._

He wanted to be her Saviour, her knight in shining armour, to rescue her from the dangers and evils in her life.

_Her guardian angel._

_That damned hero complex kicking in again!_

"Well? Is it really so hard, Sherlock?"

"I thought you found what I do insulting."

"It is, when you don't know it's coming, but I'm asking you. I want to know what your impressions are of me."

"So you can tell me yours of me."

"No. Because what I think about you doesn't matter. Whatever impressions I have of you don't matter much either. I know all that I need to know about you."

"Very well."

He drew in a short breath and began.

"You are witty and feisty. Charming, and articulate. Courageous, and outspoken. You are also a little shy, reserved and introvert, but not meek. You are not ostentatious, or prone to over exaggeration, and you are warm hearted and conscientious."

_There, that wasn't so difficult, was it!_

Yet all that said, she knew that it was still not enough for him.

He didn't want impressions, he wanted facts.

"I know that you are a good woman," Sherlock added, keeping his tone even and sincere, because he really did mean it. "And whatever it is that you are fleeing, whatever it is that you are afraid of, perhaps I could be of some help. But you have to trust me..."

"I am not afraid, Sherlock. I'm not running away from anything," Cassia sighed softly now. "I just don't feel the need to lay my life out like a carpet for all and sundry to scrutinize and trample all over."

"I am not all and sundry," he was irritated again now. "I want to help you."

"I don't need your help, Sherlock! I've managed very well all these years without it. I don't think I'm going to fall apart when all this is over and I never see you again, you conceited, arrogant dunderhead!"

His expression grew angry and irritated once more.

"Look, you pilchard, for the last time, I'm _not_ in trouble, I'm _not_ a criminal, and I am _not_ in danger. At this precise moment, you are in more danger than I am, because I could cheerfully throttle you! Now, back off and let me do what needs to be done, Sherlock," she told him in irritation now, a fierce look on her face.

Holmes found himself admiring her.

She really did have balls.

"You don't _need_ to know anything more about me than your mind and your heart already know, and all this negativity that you are generating will only make it harder for us to achieve anything."

She reigned in her temper again and spoken more calmly.

"I can't work properly if I am anxious or tense, stressed out, and your veiled threats about digging about in my private life are creating all those things right now. It's completely unnecessary, Sherlock. There is nothing there to interest you."

"Why can't you trust me?"

"I do, you moron. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't, putting up with this crap. There are more important things..."

"Yet you still cannot be completely honest with me," he persisted.

"Oh, for crying out loud man, will you listen to yourself!" she erupted now, her hands curling into tight fists at her side. "We must have a completely different idea about what 'complete' honesty is," she snatched a quick breath before continuing.

"I don't need to know your inside leg measurements, or which side 'Sir' dresses, or what you like to eat and drink or how many girlfriends you might or might not have had and when, or if you live like a monk, or bat for the other side!"

She was in full flow now, and determined to give as good as she got, her voice low and throbbing with intensity.

"I don't care if you wet the bed when you were young, of if you still do now! I don't care that you don't get along with your brother, and it matters not a jot to me if you want to kill yourself dabbling with chemical band aids!"

She snatched another breath and continued before he had a chance to chime in, although she could see that he clearly wanted to.

"I don't care that you are deliberately cruel and obnoxious, that you sulk if you can't have your own way, and that you would fall out with God himself and make sure you got the last word in if you believed that you were right and he was wrong! I don't need to know why you always have to be so cold, calculating, prickly, all hard edges and spikes. It changes nothing. None of that changes who you are and what you do, and the fact that you are unique."

"I don't need to know anything more about you than that you are damned good at what you do. I don't need to know what makes you tick, Sherlock, so why the hell is so damned important for you to know those things about me!"

It was quite a speech, and, Holmes realized, she had made her point very eloquently, those amazingly green eyes spitting golden sparks as she glared at him.

So, why _was _it so important to him?

He still did not really know.

His only excuse was that it was the way that he had always worked, and he could not, would not change his methodology now.

And, somehow, now it was even more important to him to know who she really was.

"Damn you ..."

Cassia saw what he was thinking in his eyes and turned away from him then, pretending to weep, bowing her head so that her hair fell slightly forward to hide false tears, as she reached out for the saucepan of cooling milk.

He probably knew that it was all an act, but it wouldn't hurt to let him believe that he had upset her.

It probably wouldn't make any difference, he was too hard and cold and unsympathetic for that, but it might make him stop and think for a moment.

It might buy her some time.

"You're not going to let it alone, are you?" she sniffed and made a show of raising her hand to pretend to dab at her crocodile tears.

"There is a simple solution, Cassia." He put more emphasis on her name.

A clear taunt.

"Why do you even think that you have any right to know all that there is to know about me, anyway, Sherlock?" she demanded.

Holmes made no reply.

He simply waited for her to turn back to face him, untouched by her show of emotion.

"Go and play with the traffic on the M25 ..." She mumbled then drew in a deep breath, threw back her shoulders and reached for the saucepan.

"Fine, if that's how it's got to be, so be it."

She sighed heavily once more and turned around, saucepan in hand, careful not to slop the hot contents over herself as she moved toward Sherlock and the tray of mugs on the counter behind him.

Holmes moved out of her way, casually, and leaned his hip against the counter as she poured hot milk into the three mugs and on top of the cocoa powder that he had already spooned into each one.

After emptying the saucepan she moved to the sink and ran the hot tap, filling the saucepan with hot water before dumping it into the sink to soak along with a liberal dash of washing up liquid.

After drawing in another long, calming breath, Cassia once again turned back to face Holmes, taking in his cold, unyielding eyes.

_He really was a ruthless bastard._

_He really did not know how to empathize with another human being._

"You unfeeling bastard... It looks like I have no other choice. So, I'll save you the time and trouble of digging around, Sherlock."

As she had known that she would, she saw his expression change to one of triumph.

"I'm listening."

She gave a small derisive laugh.

"Oh no, not now, Sherlock. It isn't that easy. I'll tell you what you want, or you feel that you need to know, but at a time and place of my choosing, and you're going to have to work for it, Mr Smarty Pants," she sneered.

"It's a reward, Sherlock, not a right, and before I tell you anything, I will need your assurance that it will never ever go any further."

"You have it."

"And I'm supposed to believe you?"

She gave another derisory laugh.

"Oh, I do, don't worry."

Now she could see the spark of triumph glistening in his eyes.

_Mission accomplished. _

_He thought that he had got the better of her, worn her_ down.

"_I _trust _you_, after all. Now, get the hell off my back. I need peace and tranquillity and harmony around me, not angst and doubt and suspicion and discord," she told him in no uncertain terms now.

"I'm sorry that you feel betrayed, Sherlock. You really have no need to feel that way, and I don't deserve to be punished for your paranoia."

"Cass..."

"Shove it, Sherlock."

"You don't know what I was going to say," he protested mildly.

"Frankly, unless it starts with _'I'm sorry, Cass'_ I really don't care," she told him defiantly now, squaring back her shoulders.

"Let's just drink our cocoa and try to get along. I'm tired, Sherlock, and I know that you are too, and you really need some pain medication for that bloody headache."

She raised her hand briefly to her brow, in exactly the place where Holmes' own headache was pounding away.

_Could she really feel his pain?_

Holmes was momentarily stunned, but then he remembered what he wanted to say.

"Cass," Holmes was undeterred and meant to have his say too.

While they were both being brutally honest.

"Whatever it is, this secret that you are so desperate to keep, I swear, it will be safe with me."

"I believe you. That's why I'm willing to share it with you, Sherlock. But, you have to know that it is a heavy price for me to have to pay for your co-operation," she told him flatly now.

"All I wanted, when I came to you, was to do the right thing, to have someone believe in me, just for once, and to bring an end to these horrific murders. I still want that, so I'll pay the piper and dance for the Devil, and then I'll be on my way and never darken your doorstep again. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom..."


	36. Chapter 36

_**Chapter Thirty Five**_

When Cassia returned to the living room, she noticed the difference straight away.

The heavy, cloying atmosphere had been lifted, and all was calm and peaceful, the tension dissipated.

Watson gave her a wink of approval, silently indicating that he had overheard every word of the exchange between herself and Holmes in the kitchen, and the look on Sherlock's face told her that John had also given him a piece of his mind and chipped in his two pence worth about his behaviour and the way that he had treated Cassia earlier that evening.

For what it was worth.

Holmes was now sulking, as he sipped his cocoa and nibbled on a biscuit, but he managed to raise a weak smile as she walked across the room to the tray of drinks.

That was probably the closest thing to an apology she was ever going to get from him.

She smiled back at Holmes as she accepted her cocoa from John and then the three of them sat in companionable silence as they nibbled on biscuits and sipped their cocoa like old friends coming together at the end of a busy day.

It was a stark contrast from earlier in the evening.

Holmes put the television on for the news at 11.00pm, but there were no new headlines and so he took it off again at 11.30pm and by mutual, silent consent, after turning off all but one lamp, they all settled down in their respective places.

It had been a long day, for all of them.

Cassia lay back on the couch and pulled the soft blanket up around her chest, resting her head back in the deep, fluffy pillows that rested against the arm of the couch, closing her eyes and trying to block out the unfamiliar sounds of the room and the street below, as she tried to relax, using the meditation and relaxation techniques that she had used for most of her life.

As she lay there, eyes squeezed tightly shut, willing herself to sleep, Cassia could not deny that she was terrified by the prospect of what was to come, but she had accepted that it had to be done.

Yet, try as she might, she could not seem to make herself relax.

It didn't help that all her pleas to the spirit world were going unanswered.

She comforted and reassured herself with the fact that she was not alone, and she knew that Sherlock, and in particular, John, would not allow her to endanger either one of them, or herself.

Even though she had her eyes closed, she could feel both Holmes and Watson's eyes upon her, and the weight of their expectation was like a vice tightening around her chest.

Holmes' headache was also still throbbing away in the background, nagging away at her, and her mind was far too active as she kept changing position on the couch, trying to get comfortable.

"Cass, stop fidgeting and go to sleep," Holmes deep, baritone voice, along with a heavy, impatient sigh suddenly filled the room.

"It's no use, Sherlock..."

She pushed off the blanket raised herself up on one elbow, squinting in the soft yellow light of the only lamp still illuminating the room.

"Stop fighting it."

"I'm not fighting it," she retaliated. "I _want_ to go to sleep."

"I could get you one of Sherlock's sleeping pills, if you like," Watson repeated his offer of earlier.

"No!" Holmes barked out, making Cassia jump.

"Sherlock!" Watson admonished.

"She might not dream," Holmes pointed out succinctly.

"I won't be doing much dreaming anyway..."

"What do you mean?"

"If I can't fall asleep, I won't dream will I, twit."

"You just need to relax, and give it time..."

She gave a deep sigh of frustration.

"I tried to tell you earlier that you might be expecting too much, Sherlock. I'm too tired. I can't sleep."

"You have to try," Sherlock sounded angry now, and she could not blame him.

She wasn't happy about it either, but she was powerless to change the situation.

"This is our last chance..."

"I know that, dummy! It's not my fault!" Cassia shot back impatiently now. "But if I can't I can't!" she wailed miserably. "I told you there were no guarantees, Sherlock, even if I do fall asleep. If spirit don't want to co-operate, I'm blind and deaf. Utterly useless! I see what they allow me to see, Sherlock, and if they think that they are protecting me they don't think that I am strong enough to resist him, they will block me. That's it, Finito. Nothing that I can do about it."

"Nothing at all?"

Holmes sounded incredulous now, his tone implying that there must surely be something that she could do, that she must not be trying hard enough to make her friends on the other side see the importance of this.

"I already told you, it's non negotiable. I keep asking for their help, their guidance, but they're not answering me," and she knew all too well that that meant.

There would be no dreams or visions tonight.

"You know what this means to me, and you must know I'm not doing it on purpose. I already told you ..."

Far from feeling relieved, Cassia felt devastated.

"Oh God, I want this over every bit as much as you do, Sherlock! Maybe more than you do!" Cassia moaned softly. "I don't want to have to wait for another night, when you won't be there to watch over me, but I can't help feeling that they have other plans."

Her voice caught in her throat now, an indication of just how upset she was at the situation and how weak and useless she felt.

"Ok, let's just try to calm down, shall we?" John Watson, ever the voice of reason, stepped in to the fray now. "This isn't achieving anything..."

"I'm sorry. Wanting doesn't always mean you get..." Cassia spoke in a small voice now.

Sherlock Holmes recognized the truth in her words, and the genuine sorrow and regret in her voice, and he hefted another deep sigh of resignation, as he realized that for her the suffering would continue, whether he was there to help her or not.

It appeared that it was out of their hands.

It had been something of a long shot anyway, no guarantees that she would dream, or that she would dream about the killer, or, indeed, that she would be able direct her dreams to Holmes' requests.

She was absolutely right in her observation that she would not dream if she could not fall asleep, and it was becoming obvious that she was far too wound up and tense to succumb to the arms of Morphious any time soon.

Holmes was not completely without sympathy at her plight.

Cassia needed her rest, and a respite from the horror of her night terrors, and a small part of him was just a little bit glad that she might just get some small reprieve.

But it didn't help them progress the case any further, and he was disappointed about that, to say the least.

"Go to sleep," he commanded, but not unkindly.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright, Cass. Go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. We'll find another way... If anyone can, you can."

Cassia settled back down on the couch and began the relaxation technique all over again, and soon, she could begin to feel her limbs growing heavier and her mind slowing down.

"Sweet dreams."

It was Holmes' voice once again, low and soft and reassuringly gentle, obviously aware that her breathing patterns had changed and she was now on the brink of sleep.

Realizing that the pressure that she had been feeling had suddenly been lifted, Cassia began to hope that she might indeed be able to sleep now.

She also found herself hoping for pleasant dreams, or, indeed, ideally, no dreams at all, just deep, peaceful, restorative sleep.


	37. Chapter 37

_**Chapter Thirty Six.**_

As the tiny fingers of dawn light began to illuminate the horizon, an air of disappointment, failure and depression hung over the male occupants of 221B Baker Street as they began to stir.

Cassia Ingram had finally drifted off to sleep at around 1.30am, and Holmes and Watson had kept their silent vigil, watching over her as she slept, soundly, curled up into a little ball on Holmes' couch, both waiting patiently, hoping against hope that she had been wrong about the spirit world blocking her dreams.

Nothing had happened.

Cassia had not dreamed.

They had continued to wait, but their guest had continued to sleep soundly, breathing slowly and rhythmically, muttering and whimpering softly from time to time as she shifted her position on the couch and snuggled her face deeper into the pillows, deep in REM sleep and still not dreaming.

At least not the dreams that Holmes had been hoping for.

By 4am, neither man could stay awake any longer, and pulling blankets up around their chins they had settled in their respective chairs and succumbed to the needs of their own bodies.

Holmes was the first to wake about two hours later, and casting aside the blanket he had risen from his chair, slowly and carefully stretching aching limbs, testing his legs to make sure that they would take his weight, noting that Watson too was stirring in his chair, and then he walked slowly over to the couch to check on Cassia Ingram.

She looked so peaceful, her face now turned toward him as he stood over her, and he found himself smiling softly.

He was glad that she had rested well, despite the disappointment that he felt that they had not achieved their goal.

She had needed the rest.

He did not doubt that there would be other dreams, nightmares, only he would not be around to share their horror with her and guide her to her goal.

He had made promises to two people that he respected, and he was a man of his word, if nothing else.

After going to the solicitors to sign the papers that would give John the legal right to make all the important decisions in his life while he was non compos mentis, he would go to the hospital and put himself in the hands of the eminent surgeon, Witty.

_Que sera, sera._

_Whatever will be, will be._

His only regret at that moment, that he would not be the one to help Cassia Ingram to solve this case.

_Well, not his only regret..._

He found himself thinking that it would be a pity if he did not see Cassia again, sometime in the future, if only to find out how the case had resolved it's self, from her lips.

In the cold light of day, he found that he could be brutally honest with himself.

He also realized that he might not have the chance to do so again in the future, if things did not go well.

_Yes, I like her._

_More than like her._

_I admire and respect her._

_And..._

_But what is the point?_

There could be no future for them, even if he knew how to reach out to her.

_Least said, soonest mended and all that..._

But, just for a moment, it had been pleasant, holding her in his arms, and, when John had pointed out last night, that it was he that she had sought out for comfort and help in her moment of direst need, he had been extremely flattered.

It had appealed to his ego.

_I am a man, just like any other, after all._

He smiled again softly and then he forced himself to walk away, heading firstly for the bathroom to shower and to shave and then to his bedroom to dress for the new day.

As he was dressing, Holmes heard someone enter the bathroom, and a few minutes later, the shower began to run.

When he re-entered the living room, it was to find John Watson, alone, standing by the window, looking down on the street below, yawning loudly and stretching his arms up to the ceiling languidly, working out the kinks in his spine after spending the night in the cramped armchair.

"Morning, John," Holmes greeted his friend cordially as he walked to his chair.

He had dressed sombrely, donning a black shirt and black trousers and black socks and shoes, Watson noted.

He looked like he was going to a funeral.

Not a happy thought, Watson told himself.

"Morning, Sherlock. I told Cass she could use the shower first. How do you feel?"

Holmes raised his shoulders in an absent shrug.

What did it matter, at this point, that his head felt as though it were in a vice, the world was a somewhat unsteady and topsy turvy place, dizziness added to blurred vision making him feel more than queasy, and he wanted to scream and tear his hair out?

He had accepted that this was as good as it was going to get, until he had the surgery to remove the offending mass accumulating in his brain.

"How is Cassia?" He enquired.

"Fresh as a daisy," Watson smiled.

They had only had a brief exchange of words, morning pleasantries mainly, but he had been pleased to see that she looked much rested after her peaceful, unbroken night's sleep.

That was something to be grateful for.

Holmes smiled too.

"And Mary? I assume you've spoken to her already this morning?"

"I sent her a text. She's ok. She had a good time at the theatre then met up with a few of her friends for dinner afterwards."

"Has she forgiven me for keeping you away from her for the night?"

"I didn't ask, she didn't say. That's between the two of you."

"Then I will endeavour to find the right words to soothe the savage breast."

"Good luck with that," Watson grinned wryly.

"Do you think it is wise for me to have something to eat or drink?"

"I don't see why not. I doubt they'll actually do the surgery today, Sherlock. They may have more tests to do first. You should be ok to have some tea and toast. Do you want me to make it for you?"

"No, thank you. I can manage. I think we'll need milk later." Holkmes recalled that there was about half a pint left in the carton in the fridge door, after their round of cocoa the night before. Just enough for a cup of tea each to start off the day nicely.

"I'll nip out to the newsagents before I get in the shower," Watson offered.

"Thank you. Would you like some tea and toast?"

Watson was pleasantly surprised by Holmes offer, then realized that his friend needed something to occupy himself, to help to take his mind off what was to come later that day.

Holmes looked calm and composed, but Watson could imagine what was going on in his head.

"Yes, please. Cass too, probably. By the time you get everything ready we should both be finished in the shower. And, do me a favour, Sherlock, try not to scald yourself this time."


	38. Chapter 38

_**Chapter Thirty Seven.**_

While Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, and they waited for Cassia to finish in the shower, John decided to tidy away the bed linens from the chairs and couch, folding firstly his own blanket, then Sherlock's, then carried them over to the couch where he placed them neatly on the end seat cushion, and set about folding the blanket that Cassia had used, placing it on top of the others, along with the pillows, smiling softly to himself because they were still warm from her body.

As he moved around the couch, straightening the cushions and pushing them back into place, his foot caught on something, and he looked down to find that it was Cassia's sketchpad, which had been propped up against the side of the couch.

He bent down to pick it up, meaning just to put it back, but as he lifted it, the air got between the pages and they fanned open, giving him a brief glimpse of some drawings on a few of the pages.

Curious, he flicked up the cover sheet, and was suddenly confronted with a stunning charcoal sketch of his own face smiling back at him.

_Wow…_

He let out a startled gasp of surprise, stunned by just how accurate and alive the picture seemed to be, even down to the slight hint of amusement in his eyes.

It was astonishing and it took his breath away momentarily.

He carefully lifted the next sheet, noting as he did so that a sheet of paper had been torn out of the sketchpad between them, and found a sketch of 221B's living room, perfectly reproduced in every minute, masculine, disorganized detail, so accurate and so three dimensional, he felt that he might just be able to step inside it.

On the next page, he found the sketch of Holmes.

The portrait was so realistic, for a moment, Watson almost expected it to snap something caustic and sarcastic at him.

She had captured the very essence of Holmes beautifully, his smug, aristocratic, haughty features, those sculpted cheekbones, the long face and the bold chin, and those eyes...

It was stunning in its beauty and accuracy, but she had also, somehow, miraculously caught his complexity, those beguiling eyes, full of intelligence, and yet, an air of innocence, the haughty expression softened by just the hint of a sweet smile, and that sweep of fringe, falling softly over his brow.

The image on the page almost made him want to weep because it was almost as though it were alive.

It was also obvious that the artist had created it out of affection.

"Sherlock, come and look at this," Watson called out, and Holmes appeared in the kitchen doorway with a frown on his brow.

Watson took the sketchpad over to Holmes and held it out to him.

Holmes was pre-occupied, his mind on not burning the toast which was on a low setting under the grill, while also contemplating what the day ahead held for him, but as Watson held the sketchpad under his nose, he had no other option but to give it his attention.

He recognized the pad as the one that Cassia had been using the previous afternoon, and expecting to find some idiotic squiggles, recalling that she had told him that she was merely doodling, Sherlock was surprised to find the monochrome sketch of his friend and colleague, John Watson, jumping off the page, and it immediately grabbed his attention.

He snatched the sketchpad out of Watson's hand, walking somewhat unsteadily across the room to the window so that he could get a better look.

It was an exquisite piece of work. A lightness of touch, technically brilliant, but also possessing a unique sensitivity, and, as he continued to look at the sketch, observing each nuance and detail, it suddenly occurred to him that he recognized the artist's style.

Holmes flipped over the page and found the sketch of his living room in all its glorious, riotous detail, and then he turned the page, noting the mkissing sheet of paper and realizing that it must have been where she had drawn the sketch of Mrs Hudson, the one he had taken little notice of because he had still been half asleep, and found himself faced with a very familiar countenance, and the breath suddenly caught in the back of his throat.

_Dear God..._

The sketch was absolutely the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen, not because of the subject, but because of the way that she had drawn it.

She hadn't just captured his likeness to the tee; she had also captured his personality, character and spirit.

She had been kind, ignoring the obvious signs of his present illness and weariness, but she had also kept it pretty damned honest.

Holmes was both amazed and touched, for he recognized the warmth and affection with which the artist had committed the image to the page, whilst marvelling at the technical brilliance, the clever use of light and shade, the weight of charcoal against the paper, the pen strokes, the perspective and the minute detail that brought the image to life, and he suddenly knew exactly what he was looking at.

_Luca._

The name suddenly popped into his head as he continued to marvel at the sketch.

In the months when he had been laying low and maintaining the illusion of his death, London's art world, and the newspapers had been awash with the news of a new and exciting talent emerging.

Luca.

Just a name to begin with.

A prominent gallery had shown the artist's work over several weeks, and, incognito, Holmes had managed to get in to see a preview viewing, just to see what all the fuss was about and to relieve the boredom of being dead.

He had been surprised by the amount of work on show.

Usually a showing only had a few pieces, a taste of what the artist could do, the rest held in reserve, but, what had impressed him most of all had been the standard, and variety of the work on display.

It seemed that this artist could turn their hand to any subject matter.

There were beautiful rolling landscapes and stormy, roiling seascapes, grand mountains and stark, empty beaches and desert scenes, so vibrant and alive he could almost hear the motion of the sea, almost feel the heat of the sun and practically see the clouds scudding across the sky.

They were so alive it was eerie to look at them, rows and rows of oils, and watercolours jostling for position on the gallery walls.

There were still life's that looked anything but still and lifeless, and both human and animal subjects, pencil sketches and pastels, as well as charcoal drawings and water colours, and oils, giant canvases and miniatures, all crafted with the same beautiful technique and each giving the sensation that far from being inanimate, they were living, breathing creatures and people.

Technically they were brilliant, light, but confident brush and pen strokes, the perfect use of light and shade and colour, all caught the eye and drew the viewer in, so much so that one soon found oneself mesmerized.

Indeed, they were so good, Holmes had briefly considered buying a piece as a future investment, but, then had realized that that would have been rather difficult for a dead man.

He had left the gallery with a lasting impression of the work, and had then begun to pay more attention to what those in the know in the art world in London were saying about the artist.

It transpired that there was as much interest in Luca, as there was in the work, for the artist remained something of a mystery.

No-one even seemed to know if Luca was male or female, although the name inferred masculine rather than femanine.

The gallery claimed never to have met the artist.

Indeed, they made a big show of revealing that they had worked exclusively with an intermediary who represented Luca, and that they had been forced to work under a confidentiality clause that also protected the identity of the advocate working on the artist's behalf.

At first, Holmes had considered it a stunt, a ploy to create more interest and hike up the prices of the work, and that at some point there would be a big splash of publicity, and a big 'reveal'.

However, the quality of the work, he had judged for himself, was excellent and stood on it's own merits, not needing to be promoted or hyped up, and reported sales seemed to back that up, and as the days and weeks rolled on, and the show got more and more publicity and the artist, more praise and acclaim, no-one came forward, and the gallery issued a press release stating that the artist had made it clear that there would be no personal appearances and definitely no interviews.

The press, nevertheless were ruthless in their pursuit of Luca's true identity, but alas, thus far, they had come up blank.

Luca was a pseudonym. That much was obvious.

No-one needed to have a massive intellect and superior powers of deductive reasoning to reach that conclusion.

However, Holmes had seen the significance immediately.

_Luca._

_San Luca._

_Saint Luke._

The Patron Saint of Artists and Painters.

And now, he knew who Luca was.

_She_ had just spent the night on his couch.

Now it all fell into place and made sense.

Obviously, he still had no idea who Luca/Cassia Ingram _really_ was, but, he did know that she had not tried to deceive him or trick him after all.

She had simply been maintaining her anonymity.

"She's very talented," Watson observed as he saw the expression of utter amazement on Holmes' face, especially as he scrutinized the sketch of himself and the gentle, loving way it had been drawn.

"Yes she is," Holmes answered somewhat absently, still rather in awe of the way that Cassia had depicted him, the way that she _saw_ him, and her ability to bring all of that to life on a blank piece of paper. "Brilliant."

Suddenly, Holmes' expression changed to one of wide eyed incredulity, and then, just as suddenly, morphed into a look of glee as he span around to face his friend full on.

"John, I'm a dolt!"

"No argument from me..." Watson responded, and then frowned as he recognized the look on Holmes' face and the spark of fire in his eyes.

"We've been going about this all wrong," Sherlock elaborated.

"What are you cooking up now?" Watson asked, suspicious because Holmes' suddenly looked more animated than he had seen him in days, and he had _that _look on his face, the one that annoyed Watson so much.

_I know something that you don't know... So there!_

"I've been a fool, John."

"Like I said, no argument from me..."

"You're repeating yourself again, my friend!"

Holmes turned back to the window, glancing briefly down at the street as he grew thoughtful.

Suddenly he turned around and began to walk around the room, the fingers of both hands steepled against his chin, as though in prayer, and Watson watched and waited for that Eureka moment he surely knew was coming.

"We still have time..." Holmes was muttering to himself as he began to pace up and down. "And I think there might be a way for us to do this without Cass having to go through all the emotions involved."

He handed the sketchpad carefully back to Watson as he walked past him, moving purposefully toward the living room door now, calling out as he did so.

"Cass! Cassia? Are you decent...?"

"Sherlock! Don't you bloody dare go barging in there!" Watson exclaimed in horror, realizing where Holmes was heading.

"I have no intention of barging in anywhere. Cass!"

Holmes bellowed advancing through the living room door and out onto the landing, where he almost collided with Cassia Ingram as she emerged from the bathroom, now dressed in fresh clothes and her loose hair damp from the shower.

There was a soft flush on her cheeks, no doubt from the heat of the shower, and she looked startled as she almost barrelled into Holmes chest, and he suddenly grabbed her by the hand and pulled her behind him back into the living room and to the couch.

"Sit," he commanded, then softened his tone slightly. "Please," he added, then crossed the room and snatched the sketchpad from John Watson's fingers, turning on the spot, no sign of dizziness or loss of balance now, just excitement and barely controlled jubilation, and advancing back towards where Cassia Ingram had sat down on the couch with a hearty sigh, a wary, crestfallen expression on her face.

She saw the sketchpad in his hand and knew that she had given herself away.

_Damn him!_

_Oh well, you got what you wanted sooner than you expected, after all, Sherlock. I hope you're happy!_

The look on Holmes' face, the twinkle in his eyes, they all proclaimed, loud and clear, that he knew who she was.

Or at least, he_ thought_ thathe did.

"You drew these?" he waved the sketch of Watson under her nose. "These doodles?"

"Yes, Sherlock. You know I did," she sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping now.

No point in denying it when he had seen her with his own eyes.

"They're exquisite by the way, and to call them doodles is an insult to your talent, Cass."

"Thank you. I think..." she frowned, surprised by the softer tone of his voice now.

"I'm so sorry, Cass. I've been a brute to you..."

"I beg your pardon?"

The words were out before she could stop herself.

That was the last thing that she had expected to come out of his mouth, however, there was such a look of sincerity on his face as he continued to regard her, she could not help believing that he meant it.

Even Watson could not hide his surprise at his friend's sudden change in attitude.

"I've behaved abominably and treated you disrespectfully, and you do not deserve that," Holmes went on, unabashed now. "Alas, that is who and what I am. I cannot change my nature. However, I do realize that I have been insensitive, and I would understand completely if you no longer trusted me, or wanted to work with me."

"Sherlock, you ninny, will you please just get to the point, before we both get another year older..." she urged.

"I've been a fool..."

_Twice in one day! _

_Bloody hell, Sherlock, don't lay it on with a trowel!_

"I'm sorry. I got tunnel vision. It happens some times. I get an idea into my head and I can't shake it, but, I see things differently now, and I realize that we have been approaching this from the wrong direction," he explained hurriedly in excited tones now.

"I have an idea, but I don't know if it is even possible," he rushed on, looking very pleased with himself. "But, if it is, I think there may be a way to get the information we need to get this killer off the streets, and in such a way that will hopefully alleviate the problem of your being overwhelmed by the killer's emotions. Will you hear me out?"

"Of course, Sherlock. I want this resolved too. But, I want you to promise that whatever happens, you will go to the hospital with John straight after."

Her fingers fluttered briefly to her temple, indicating to him that she was aware of his still considerable pain.

Holmes nodded in understanding, beginning to believe that she really could feel his pain along with him.

"Well, not straight after, Cass, John and I have a pre-arranged appointment to attend first, and that if what I have in mind works out, we will by necessity have one more stop to make, but yes, I promise, after that, I will go willingly."

"Ok. I'm listening, so, fire away," Cassia invited, sitting back and making herself comfortable in her seat on the couch, feeling a little more benevolent toward him now that she had a good night's sleep under her belt, and realizing from his manner that he might really be on to something positive.

"Thank you," Holmes gave her a small, genuine smile now. "Right, I need some information from you first though. I'm rather out of my element with this," he admitted. "Last night, you indicated to us that the spirit world were concerned for your safety and wanted to protect you, and to that end, they deliberately blocked your ability to see. You made it clear that if they refused to co-operate, you were helpless."

"Yes," she confirmed, regretfully.

"What if there is a way to get the information that we need, without all the anxiety and upset? What if you didn't have to dream?"

"Go on," she invited, curiosity sparkling in her eyes now.

"Do you think we could try what we did the first time you came here to tell us the details of your visions?" he asked as he squatted down before her, wanting to be at the same level as her now, his electric blue eyes dancing with life.

"Do you think you could put yourself back in to your vision, your dreams, but while you are wide awake?" he asked, regarding her with expectation. "I definitely need you to be wide awake," he continued. "As you were then, that first time we spoke of this business. Do you think that the spirit world would peel back the veil and allow you to see again?"

"Perhaps," she sighed softly. "What are you getting at, Sherlock? What exactly is it you want?"

"Do you think that you could negotiate with them?" he persisted without revealing anything of what was on his mind. "Does it work like that?"

"I don't know. I've never tried it. I can ask."

"Good. Please do."

"So what is your plan? What do I tell them you need?"

"I would like you to try to reach the children, Cass, and see if you can get them to describe to you, or show you, whatever it is they do, however it works..." he gave her a rueful look then.

"I want you to get them to describe in as much detail as they can, what they remember of the man who took their lives, and then, I want you to draw him," he declared waving the sketchpad carefully under her nose once more.

_Oh my God! _

_Why didn't I think of that!_

"Perhaps you could also draw the children," Holmes added as an after thought. "And then, John and I could take the drawings to Inspector LeStrade at Scotland Yard, so that he can distribute them to other Forces around the country and they can then cross reference them with known offenders and any missing children reports."

"You want me to draw an identikit picture of the killer?" she repeated, still silently chastising herself for not thinking of this herself before now. "Sherlock, that's brilliant!"

Cassia's face suddenly erupted into a wide, eager smile.

She had known that left to his own devices, Holmes would come up with something.

She had said as much last night.

He wasn't the kind of man to rest on his laurels, or to admit defeat easily, and she had felt sure that he would have continued to seek a solution, right up to the last minute, even while she slept.

He hadn't disappointed her.

It was the perfect solution.

If they could do it.

If _she_ could do it.

"Could you do it, Cass? Do you think it's possible?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I think so," she didn't doubt that she could produce a good enough likeness, but she still had concerns about her reaction when she came face to face with the killer, or what spirit would make of the request.

"If my guide can get the others to co-operate, to bring the children forward, it might work. They will, of course, be more concerned for the welfare of the children, and might limit my access, but yes, I think I could swing it, but, you'll have to promise to be patient and gentle."

"Anything, Cass. At this point, I will do anything; promise _anything_ that it takes to get the right result."

"Ok."

Cassia smiled softly down at Sherlock, a look of genuine relief on her face now, as she contemplated that finally, she might be able to do something positive to help him complete his part in this business.

"Good. How soon can we get started?" Holmes asked excitedly, anticipation dancing in his eyes now.

"I don't know. You'd better let me make contact with my spirit guide and see if they're willing to put the children through that."

"Very well."

Suddenly an acrid smell wafted in from the kitchen, and the smoke detector on the hall wall began to beep urgently.

_Oh drat…_

"In the meantime, my friend, you'd better go and rescue that toast, before you burn Mrs Hudson's house down."


	39. Chapter 39

_**Chapter Thirty Eight.**_

The living room at 221B Baker Street was calm and tranquil, but there was also an unmistakeable air of anticipation, as well as the lingering aroma of smoke, as the three occupants made themselves comfortable.

While Watson had taken his shower and had attended to his morning ablutions, and Holmes had had to start over again with the toast, consigning the first burned offering to the kitchen bin, Cassia Ingram had popped out to the local newsagents to purchase milk, and a few essential items that she needed, a couple of boxes of lead pencils, hard and soft, and a plastic packet of coloured pencil crayons, because she felt that charcoal would be too cold a medium for the work she needed to produce.

She had then taken a brisk walk around the cold, damp streets around Baker Street, filling her lungs with the sharp, fume tainted morning air, clearing the fog of sleep from her mind and stretching her limbs, physically and mentally preparing herself for what she was about to attempt.

Since Holmes had pounced on her with his idea that she try to draw the children, and the killer, she had thought about nothing else, and what she might be able to do to achieve their goal.

As she walked, it came to her, exactly how she could go about it, and she returned to 221B, about fifteen minutes later, feeling more confident about what lay ahead.

Over breakfast, she and John and Sherlock had had a little pow-wow, with Cassia laying down a few non negotiable ground rules, for Sherlock in particular, to follow.

He hadn't liked it, but he had had no choice but to agree.

Now they were ready.

Holmes and Watson occupied their usual seats, opposite each other, and across the room from them, Cassia sat on the couch, her sketchpad balanced on her lap, and she had placed various pencils, laid out neatly in rows and close to hand, on the seat cushion beside her.

Watson had a notepad open to a clean sheet of paper, and a pen, close to hand on the arm of the chair, ready to begin taking notes during the proceedings, and Holmes had his violin and bow in his lap, waiting for a cue from Cassia, as she had suggested that perhaps a little soothing music might help to set the mood and help to create a more welcoming and peaceful atmosphere for the children.

Holmes had not been happy about that either.

He had protested at first, fearing that his present standard of dexterity would not be up to the task, but both John and Cassia had given him pained, exasperated looks.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you big girl, it's not a concert at the ruddy Royal Albert Hall," John had pointed out in scathing tones.

"John's right, Sherlock. You will be playing for two traumatized and terrified babies. Play as many bum notes as you like, go for it, they'll probably think it's funny."

Holmes had given them both the evil eye, but he had picked up his fiddle, nevertheless, mainly because he had already agreed to Cassia's ground rules, which had included: 'Do as spirit ask, go with the flow, don't argue and don't try to boss them around. You're not running _this_ show, Sherlock, _they_ are, so get with the programme and keep your temper, please."

Cassia had also tried to explain to both men about some other things that they night become aware of when things got going, indicating that perhaps they night notice some tiny lights, or orbs, experience what was known as 'out of the corner of the eye' phenomenon, where they might believe that they had caught some movement just out of their line of sight, and that the temperature in the room might change.

"Look guys, I'm no expert at this. It's the first time I've really tried anything like this," she had explained in a soft, somewhat nervy voice. "I don't do séances, so I really don't know what to expect, but," she had paused for a moment. "If things suddenly start flying around the room it's more likely to be Sherlock throwing a tantrum than my friends on the other side!"

She had grinned widely then and given Sherlock a very meaningful look.

Both men had smiled back at her, although Sherlock's was more like the smile of a crocodile, all teeth and no humour.

They waited patiently.

Cassia settled into a comfortable position and closed her eyes, drawing in a long, deep, calming breath.

Holmes noticed a change in her facial expression almost immediately, more relaxed, a kind of peacefulness settling over her, and he too was inspired to take in a long, deep breath, casting a quick glance at Watson to make sure that he was ready with his pad and pen, poised to take down any salient information.

"Ok, Sherlock," Cassia finally broke the silence. "How about you give us a tune?" she invited, her eyes still closed, an expression of concentration etched into her pleasant futures now.

"What do you suggest?" he drawled, unsure what kind of 'mood' music she would think appropriate.

"Well, I have an idea that might make things a little easier."

"Oh?" Holmes' tone was suspicious now.

"Yes. Why don't you play something that your Grand-mere would have liked?" Cassia suggested softly.

After all, his grandmother was the one contact that had been coming through loud and clear, so, why not approach her and try to elicit her help. She would also be someone that the children might be able to trust when faced with a room full of strangers. A kindly, reassuring figure.

She had decided that it was worth a try, and as she had hoped, the feisty French woman had come through to her immediately.

Watson looked at Holmes and arched his eyebrow inquisitively, mouthing 'Grand-mere?'

Holmes blatantly ignored him, as he raised the violin up and positioned it under his chin, moving it around until he felt comfortable, and then he raised the bow and drew it tentatively across the strings.

Ready to begin, Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up in his mind's eye, days of yore, when he had been a boy, playing tunes for his grandmother during those blissful summer months, suddenly recalling her favourite, the one that had always made her smile and clap her hands together in pleasure.

Holmes began to play, dragging the notes required from the depths of his memory, and instantly the room began to echo to the recognizable strains of 'Sur la Pont d'Avignon,' and then, with more confidence and flair, he followed that, with the jaunty, 'Frere Jacques."

Cassia Ingram smiled.

"Nice."

Holmes continued to play.

It wasn't perfect, a few scratchy notes here and there, but he thought it somehow appropriate, playing more like the boy that he had been, showing off for his beloved Grand-mere, just starting to come to terms with the instrument.

John Watson wasn't sure exactly when it happened, but he suddenly noticed a change in the atmosphere in the room, and the fine hairs on the back of his neck were suddenly tingling and standing on end, and he could feel goose bumps rising on the backs of his hands.

He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he also thought that the room suddenly felt a degree or two cooler.

_Here we go…_

Making a note of the time, Watson began to scribble a brief note of his observations on his notepad.

Across the room, Cassia Ingram suddenly let out a soft chuckle, a pleasant sound, and Watson raised his eyes from the paper and glancing over at Cassia, found a broad grin on her face, and a merry twinkle dancing in her now open green eyes.

Sherlock immediately stopped playing and glared at Cassia, wondering what she found so funny.

He had told her that he didn't think he was up to the task, so he certainly did not appreciate her amusement.

"Your grandmother is saying 'even after all these years, Cherie, it still sounds like you are strangling a cat," Cassia explained on another chuckle. "Say hello, Sherlock."

"Bonjour, Grand-mere. Com en sa va?"

Again Cassia giggled.

Holmes continued to glare.

"She says, 'I'm dead, Cherie, how do you think I feel?"

"Very drool."

"Be nice, Sherlock. She's pleased to see you, the least you can do is be polite."

"Merci, Grand-mere, Ca va bien," Holmes drawled sarcastically.

"Grand-mere?" Watson spoke aloud this time, regarding Holmes with a frown and a cocked eyebrow.

"I'll explain later…" Holmes snarled, but Watson could tell from the expression on his face that he had absolutely no intention of explaining anything.

_Don't mind me. I'm just the resident idiot…_

On the other side of the room, Cassia Ingram grew silent and serious once again, and Watson could only assume that she was in the process of communing with the spirit of Holmes' dead grandmother.

_Dead French grandmother._

"Cass?" Holmes' tone was impatient.

"I'm asking your grandmother if she can help me, Sherlock. She is telling me that the children are near, but, they are frightened," she explained, her eyes closed once more as she concentrated on the other, unheard side of the conversation.

"Frankly, I don't blame them, poor lambs. Look what happened to them the last time they trusted a stranger," she reminded them, a shudder suddenly running down her spine. "We need to try to gain their trust."

She grew silent and thoughtful for a moment, possibly continuing the conversation with Holmes' grandmother.

"How about some nursery songs? Sherlock, do you know 'London Bridge Is Falling Down?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Good. You play, and John and I will sing, and then perhaps we could have 'Oranges and Lemons' and 'Ring a ring a Roses?"

"Very well," Holmes responded through clenched teeth. "If we must."

"We must," Cassia confirmed. "I told you, Sherlock, forget how crazy or embarrassing it looks and sounds. You need to play along. Literally."

Holmes emitted a loud snort of disgust.

He had never harboured aspirations to be either a busker or a children's entertainer.

He did not have the temperament for it, and he knew it.

He was most uncomfortable with the situation, and he had the distinct impression that both Watson and Cassia were enjoying his embarrassment and discomfort.

_Next they'll be asking me to dress up as a clown!_ He thought sourly to himself.

"Remember they're children, Sherlock, so make it light and playful, jolly, not a dirge, please," Cassia advised with a gentle smile.

Holmes drew his bow across the strings sounding out the first chord of 'London Bridge is falling down', and right on cue, Cassia began to sing.

She had a nice voice, a sweet, clear, Metzo soprano, easily carrying the melody and in perfect tune.

Watson, on the other hand, sounded like a bull frog with Bronchitis, however, he did not let that bother him, as he got into the part of entertainer and sang along with Cassia with gusto.

_Don't give up your day job, doctor…_

"London Bridge is falling down my fair lady!"

Watson was grinning like a fool, really getting into the swing of things, and Holmes, continuing to play, raised his eyes to the heavens in exasperation.

This was not at all what he had had in mind.

If Mrs Hudson could hear this nonsense, she would think them all completely mad.

She was already as wicked as a wasp over the smoke alarm going off and her house being filled with the acrid aroma of burned bread.

Holmes finished the tune with a flourish of his bow, then after a brief adjustment of the violin under his chin, he sounded out a new chord.

"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's…" Cassia took the first part of the verse, singing in a light, cheery voice. "You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St Martin's…"

"When will you pay me, say the bells of Old Bailey..." Watson took up the song, in a deep, booming voice, and Holmes continued to fiddle jauntily, with a false smile on his lips, which barely concealed his clenched teeth.

"When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch…" Cassia again; with a big grin on her face, obviously enjoying the duet with Watson, who now took up the next line in the same deep voice.

"When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney…."

"I do not know, says the great bell of Bow." Cassia concluded.

The music stopped abruptly, right on cue and she and Watson took a quick breath and spoke the last lines of the rhyme in unison.

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed, and here comes a chopper to chop off your head!"

Cassia looked back at Holmes and nodded, giving him the cue for the next little ditty, and she could tell from his expression that he was not a happy camper.

_Tough cheddar, this is my show!_

Holmes once again sounded out the first note, and Cassia began to sing once more.

"Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies, A-tishoo! A-tishoo! We all fall down!"

"How gruesome," Holmes intoned with a grimace. "The things we teach our children when they are so young and impressionable," he grumbled. "Beheading and the Black Death …"

"Alright, spoil sport," John admonished now. "We were just getting into the right mood. Party pooper!"

"Why don't you sing something, Sherlock?"

"No fear."

"Then don't criticize others," Cassia chastised. "You need to loosen up and go with the flow, Sherlock."

"I thought that was what I was doing," he grumbled.

"Ok, let's try something else. The singing was good, but the children are still reluctant to come forward. How about some nursery rhymes?"

"I don't know any," Holmes grumbled again.

"Yes you do," Watson quickly contradicted, and Holmes gave him a nasty scowl. "Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear…"

"Yes, alright, I know _that_ one."

"What's the matter, Sherlock, don't you want to get tickled under _there_!" Watson suddenly giggled.

"Ok, boys, chill. Nobody has to get tickled," Cassia shook her head in exasperation at the pair of them. "We're supposed to be the grown ups, here. Could you at least try to be adult about it?"

"I doubt it, John giggled again. " We don't do serious."

"So what do you do?" Cassia went along with him, noting the teasing twinkle in his eye and the pained look on Holmes face although he too was wrestling to suppress a grin.

"We solve mysteries. I write a blog about it, and he gets right up people's noses!" Watson let out a loud guffaw, and despite himself, Sherlock could not resist a soft chuckle. "Nobody said we had to be grown up about it!"

"Children, please!"

However, Cassia was laughing too.

It felt so good.

It also helped to relieve the tension that had been building up in the room.

Cassia also felt a wave of approval from the 'other side'. Holmes and Watson's antics, their bickering and then their laughter had amused the children, and made them curious.

It wasn't the kind of behaviour they were used to seeing in most adults.

Absently, Cassia reached out for an HB pencil and opened her sketchpad up to a clean piece of paper, began to draw.

"So, we've established that Sherlock only knows one nursery rhyme, his education is obviously sadly lacking in that department, what about you, John?" Cassia enquired, not taking her eyes off the sketchpad in her lap, her hand working to develop the sketch she was working on.

"Errr."

"Oh boy. How do you usually coax your younger patience to trust you?" she quizzed.

"Well, with a lollipop, or a gobstopper usually."

"I'll just bet their dentists love you," she sighed softly. "Just my luck, sitting here with the only two blokes in London who don't know any nursery rhymes. What about Humpty Dumpty? Jack and Jill went up the hill? Here we go round the Mulberry bush? Ring any bells?"

"Doh!"

"Are you taking the…"

"Sherlock!" Watson's tone held a note of warning now.

"Well, this is utterly ridiculous!"

"No, it's not," Cassia's tone grew serious now. "Grand-mere has had her fun, and she thanks you for playing along because it's done the trick," she explained, again her eyes never leaving the sketchpad before her.

Curiosity was getting the better of him now, and so Holmes carefully set down his precious violin and bow and rose from his chair, needing to stretch his legs.

He was interested to see what Cassia was drawing, but before he could make a move to cross the room, she was suddenly flipping the page over quickly, her pencil flying over the new blank page, and he could tell straight away from Cassia's expression that something had changed.

Fun time was over.

There was a look of horror on her suddenly pale face, her green eyes big and welling with unshed tears, and he guessed that she was reacting to what she alone could see.

However, her hand remained steady as she began to outline what she was seeing before her, he noted.

"Cass?" Holmes spoke in a soft voice, suddenly becoming aware that the air temperature in the room had dropped again, and just for the briefest intan, he thought he saw something move out of the corner of his left eye.

"It's alright, Sherlock," she acknowledged him without looking up, her voice soft and low, indicating her gratitude for his sudden concern for her. "I'm alright," she added for good measure. "She's here."

"She?" Holmes quizzed with a frown, suddenly noting a tiny little orb of flourescent white light dancing around Cassia's feet.

"The blue eyed, blonde haired angel," Cassia clarified.

Holmes could hold his patience no longer and he slowly made his way across the room, and finally stopped beside the couch, where he dropped to his knees, hunkering down so that he could see what Cassia was so industriously drawing on her sketchpad, suddenly aware that the orb of light was floating around his head and shoulders, before moving off to hover around Cassia's drawing hand.

On the page before him, becoming clearer and clearer with every stroke of the pencil, was indeed the angelic face of a little girl of about four years old.

Cassia had given her big, wide, innocent eyes and was in the process of shading them in quickly with a sky blue coloured pencil crayon, and the child also had a cheeky, gap-toothed smile in a chubby, round face.

Her hair was unkempt, untidy wisps escaping from a couple of ratty pigtails, one on each side of her head.

Cassia continued to fill in more detail with various coloured pencils, yellow for her hair, pink for her lips and ruddy cheeks, and a deeper, crimson colour for the livid, wide line which had opened the poor child's throat and allowed her life's blood to flow from her.

Holmes instantly recalled Cassia Ingram's reaction when she had told him about how this poor child had met her demise when she had been forced, by him, to describe the manner of her death, and he looked at Cassia now, fearful that she might be overwhelmed with emotions, but, instead, despite the fact that tears were rolling freely down her cheeks as she rapidly blinked them away, she looked calm and poised, her attention firmly fixed on creating the sketch he intended to take to Scotland Yard later.

At that moment, he felt immense pride in Cassia.

She was coping with the situation admirably.

"Angel…"

"Hmm?" Holmes frowned, and then realized that she had not been addressing him, but again describing the child she was seeing.

"Yes. Indeed, she is," Holmes agreed.

"No," Cassia snapped impatiently as she continued to draw. "It's not what she looks like."

"Oh."

"Well, yes, she does look pretty angelic, but that's not what I meant. I keep hearing it, over and over again, and that means it's important, but I don't now why."

"Something to do with where she is buried perhaps?" Holmes suggested helpfully.

"No. She's not in any graveyard, Sherlock, so there are no angelic monuments around her," Cassia reminded, still adding details to her drawing.

"Take your time," Holmes encouraged. "You're doing fine." He added, hoping that didn't sound too patronizing, for he had not meant it to come out like that.

The full length sketch was taking shape now, coming to life on the page before him, as Cassia continued to work without pause or hesitation, adding, to his relif, the clothing that she had described to him from her visions, because he had also recalled that at first, Cassia had described the child as laying naked in an open grave.

She dressed the child in the denim dungarees, patched and torn and faded and frayed, with the faded mustard coloured teddy bear motif on the top bib section that she had recalled from earlier visions instead.

"Angel…"

Cassia was muttering under her breath, mulling it over and over, as she worked.

"C'mon angel, show me, tell me. Madam, can you make her understand?" Holmes heard her breathy plea to his deceased relative, and notice the orb fade a little, then glow more brightly as it moved up towards Cassia's head.

"Oh!" Cassia suddenly exclaimed, and a smile briefly flashed across her lips. "Merci. Thank you."

Her hand suddenly stilled for a moment and she closed her eyes, allowing fresh tears to spill over her lashes and down her cheeks.

Then her hand was working again on the page, but beneath the drawing this time.

"Oh God, Sherlock, I'm such a dunce! It's her name!" Cassia exclaimed as she continued to scrawl something on the page beneath the sketch.

"Angel?"

"No. Angela," Cassia declared now with confidence as she finished writing.

"Angela. That's a good start," Holmes praised softly then turned his attention to Watson. "Did you get that, John?" and was startled to find another two small orbs orbing Watson.

"Yes."

"Good."

Holmes decided not to draw his friend's attention to the strange phenomomen. He needed him to concentrate on taking notes, just in case he himself missed something important.

"Hmmm, now she's showing me a spider," Cassia informed with a hint of uncertainty, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, briefly.

"A spider?" Holmes echoed her tone, and then, they both suddenly realized the significance at the same time, and spoke in unison.

"Web."

"Angela Webb," Holmes spoke the name excitedly, and glanced over to Watson to make sure that he was continuing to make notes, and gave a nod of satisfaction as he spotted his friend scribbling on to his notepad.

"Hello, Angela," Cassia was speaking softly to the child that he and Watson could not see, but, did not doubt was in the room with them now.

"Hello, Angela…" he responded in kind, then suddenly noticed the change in Cassia's expression.

A moment ago she had been triumphant and positive, now, she was filled with sorrow.

"She says she's with her Mommy and Daddy now."

"So, she was an orphan."

"Yes. Your grandmother is telling her she is not alone anymore."

"Poor mite…" This was from Watson now.

"Where is she, Cass?"

Holmes decided to change the direction of the conversation from emotion and sentiment, before Cassia was overwhelmed and could no longer function properly.

"Can she tell you? Show you?"

"Hang on, Sherlock. I'll get to that. She keeps going off on a tangent, telling me about her favourite toys. She's such a small child, Sherlock, you can't expect her to concentrate on one thing for too long, and I don't want to spook her now I have her confidence."

"Sorry."

And he genuinely was this time.

The picture on the sketchpad was so detailed, so vibrant and alive, it was heart breaking, especially as the injury to her throat stood out so boldly, it was beginning to affect his usually arctic heart.

The image on the page was better than any photograph, because Cassia had somehow managed to make it look as though the child were alive and might actually move if you looked at her long enough.

Suddenly, Cassia's hand stilled once more and a frown deepened, creasing her brow.

"What?"

"They're showing me a deer," she explained incredulously.

"A deer?" Holmes echoed.

"Yes, Sherlock. A deer."

"What kind of deer?"

"How should I know! I don't know a Roe deer from a ruddy Reindeer!" Cassia snapped impatiently.

"Sorry. Apologies. I meant sex, doe or stag, not genus," Holmes clarified.

"Here. I'll show you."

She began to draw another image on another clean space on the sheet of paper, quickly producing the head, neck and shoulders of a stag.

"What does it mean?"

"You're the detective, Sherlock! Do I have to do everything myself?"

"A road sign," Holmes suggested, gleefully. "It makes sense. She's buried in woodland. Our man must have used a vehicle to transport her there. Perhaps she saw a sign, warning motorists of the danger of wild deer roaming on to the road, whilst they were driving."

However, even as he finished speaking, Cassia was drawing a box around the outline a now complete picture of a stag, and was reaching for a purple coloured pencil crayon, which she used to begin shading around the animal's outline, leaving the animal its self completely white.

"Damn!"

_There goes that theory..._

Sherlock needed his computer.

He rose sharply, wobbled slightly, and then, almost tripping over his own feet, as a wave of dizziness and nausea crashed over him.

He saved himself by reaching out for a dining chair, and then after recovering himself, and pulling out the chair so that he could sit down, he opened up Internet Explorer, clicked on his Favourites drop down box and selected the link for Google search.

When the page loaded, he began to type in the search box.

"It's definitely not a road sign," he announced.

Road signs in the UK invariably had a red border around them, circles or triangles with a warning of road conditions or speed limits or obstructions ahead.

"It's some kind of emblem."

"What for instance?"

"A company, or a club of some kind, or an hotel chain, I don't know yet. Google is very slow… Cass, what else does Angela remember?" Holmes demanded.

"She keeps saying something over and over, but again, I can't quite make it out. It sounds like Chas."

"The killer's name!"

"No, she keeps showing me the deer, and saying Chas, so it could be what she has named the animal for all I know!"

"Damn!"

"She's only a baby, Sherlock. She can't read yet, so she's trying her best to show me what she saw, and tell me what she heard."

"Keep trying."

"I am!"

Suddenly, Cassia let out a startled, strangulated little gasp which immediately drew Holmes attention away from his computer screen.

He fixed his eyes on Cassia and found the same horror stricken expression on her pale face that he had seen earlier, when the child Angela had come forward to speak with her.

Her face was again awash with tears, unashamedly streaming down her cheeks to drip off her chin, her hand, still poised above the sketchpad, trembling ever so slightly now.

The small, flourescent orb had moved away, hovering behind Cassia, and now, a much stronger orb of light was dancing ecitedly around Cassia's head.

Something had changed.

Holmes felt it too now.

The air in the room was very cold now, and there was an oppressiveness in the atmosphere, as he watched the new, stronger orb darting around Cassia excitedly.

"Cass?" Holmes asked softly, fearing that perhaps the killer himself had entered the picture.

"David is here now," Cassia explained in a low, quivering voice, drawing in a ragged breath.

"David?" Holmes frowned, the questoin he loathed asking in his eyes now.

"Yes."

Cassia suddenly spurred herself into action, flipping over the page she had been working on for a clean sheet of paper, and then her hand was moving quickly as she set about outlining a new sketch.

Holmes was on his feet and by her side in an instant, weaving and wobbling as he crossed the room and again dropped to his knees beside her, a glitter in his eyes and an eager, expectant expression on his face.

However, it soon became clear to him that Cassia was not drawing the face of the killer, as he had assumed.

_Damn..._

This time, the picture that emerged was of a slightly older child, a boy with dark hair and dark eyes.

Another victim then.

Holmes estimated the child's age at about six or seven years old.

He had a long face and sharp features, and he was clad in grey long trousers and a white t-Shirt under a bright red sweater.

Over the left breast, there was a hole in the sweater where a knife had penetrated and destroyed what Holmes could only assume had once been a school motto or emblem.

Sherlock leaned in for a closer look at the child, realizing that the orb was now dancing around his head and shoulders, and was immediately struck by the difference between the sketches, and the two children themselves.

Angela was all innocence and beauty.

This child's face was filled with anger, his dark eyes burning with rage.

Cassia was now using the red pencil to add the boy's injuries, a bloody line on his head, just above his eyebrow on the right side, and what looked discomfortingly like fingerprint marks on his long, white throat.

"He doesn't like it there," Cassia explained in a quivering voice. "He wants to go home."

"What else does he say?" Holmes prompted gently, trying to steer the conversation away from anything that might prove too emotional for both parties.

"He's in the woods too," Cassia explained softly. "I don't think they knew each other in life, but I do think that they're close to each other," she paused to take a breath. "Sherlock, when they find them, and they will, they won't be far from each other."

"Find them where, Cass?"

Cassia stopped drawing and closed her eyes, deep concentration etched into her brow now, and Holmes assumed that she was communing with the boy, trying to get more detail from him, as he watched the pulsing orb hover right in front of Cassia's face.

Suddenly, the little boy, David, made himself understood, in a very loud and clear voice inside Cassia's head.

He was very angry indeed, and he was shouting at her, because she was a dumb, stupid adult who didn't know anything.

_It's not Chas, dumbo, it's chase! _

He screamed at her.

_Girls are so silly! You don't know anything!_

_Easy young man, I'm trying to help you. _Cassia tried to soothe the child as his anger continued to buffet her mentally.

"Chase," Cassia spoke out loud, without thinking, repeating what the child had said.

"What did you say?"

Holmes jumped on it immediately, causing Cassia to open her eyes and look into his eager face, but her hand continued to move across the page, and when they both looked back down at the sketch, she had written the word down beneath the picture of the petulant young lad.

"Chase," they spoke it out loud together.

"But what does that mean?" Holmes quizzed. "Does he mean the killer chased them?"

"No!" Cassia answered sharply, reacting to the child's loud, clear, angry, impatient voice in her head once more. "It's a place, Sherlock. _The_ place. He's telling me their on the Chase…"

"Chase, chase…" Holmes repeated over and over, racking his brain for the answer he sought.

Where in the British Isle was there a place name with the word Chase in it?

_Damnation!_

"Chase, chase…"

He rolled the word around on his tongue as he returned to his computer and added the word to his search criteria on Google search's box and then pressed enter, moving back from the screen slightly as he waited for Google to spit out the answers he desperately wanted, to his search for a deer, or more correctly, a stag emblem and the word Chase.

They were close.

So close.

He could taste it.

If only he could recall somewhere in the UK with the name Chase!

_Dunderhead!_

Was it possible that such a place even existed, or was the child playing with then, sending them on a wild goose chase?

Holmes then recalled the sketch that Cassia had drawn and the expression of rage on the little man's face.

No.

He was trying to help them.

"Hang on a minute," This was Watson now. "Did you say Chase?" he queried absently, suddenly drawing both Holmes and Cassia's attention.

"Yes, John. Chase. Why?" Holmes' tone was that of an exasperated adult speaking to a slow witted child.

"Sounds like Cannock Chase," Watson announced, looking up from his notes, and then ran his tongue quickly over his suddenly dry lips, uncomfortable under Holmes intense scrutiny.

"What?" Holmes demanded.

"Cannock Chase. I think it's in the Midlands, somewhere. Between Birmingham, Wolverhampton and Stafford, I believe. I shared a billet with a chap who came from there. He was very proud of his birth place as I recall…"

"Watson!" Holmes cut him off then. "You're a genius!"

Holmes grinned, somewhat manically, as he looked back at his computer screen and found the search results listed there.

He almost jumped with glee as he saw a link for Cannock Chase District, and another for Cannock Chase Forest.

It was a real place after all!

"That's not what you usually say. Normally you say I'm an idiot," Watson protested, although he was secretly flattered by Holmes praise.

"I'm making an exception on this occasion."

Holmes continued to grin as he sat down at the table and turned his attention to the computer, opening the first link, to Wikipedia, and waited for the page to load.

It was pretty general information about the area.

Cannock Chase, located in Staffordshire, between Cannock, Lichfield, Rugeley and Stafford, as Watson had already pointed out, was classified as an Area of Outstanding Beauty and was also designated as a Site of Scientific Interest.

There was only one pretty boring picture on the site, but it gave Holmes a general idea of the terrain, lots of woodland with trails for walking and cycling, with roads running through it, making it accessible, but not bustling with traffic all day and all night long.

Located on the edge of the once Industrialized Midlands in the heart of the country, it was a remote place with few inhabitants, and at night, it would be the perfect place to hide a body in the sure and certain knowledge that one would be truly alone.

"Thank you, John. Cass, David too. Well done that young man! I think we're finally on to something at last!"

Watson rose from his chair and came to stand behind Holmes at the table, peering over his friend's shoulder so that he could read the information on the computer screen, scribbling notes swiftly down on to his notepad, and then, when Holmes was sure that John had finished, he clicked on another link that took him to the home page of Cannock Chase.

When the page finished loading, Holmes saw what he had been hoping for to clinch it for him.

The park or forest area's emblem was a white silhouette of a stag in a purple coloured box, and the site gave information on how to get there and where to stay, and what to do whilst you were there, all of which Watson meticulously noted down on his pad, especially the numbers of the roads that crisscrossed the Chase land.

When he was done, Watson moved away, going back to his original seat and Holmes pushed back the chair so that he could turn around and face Cassia.

He found that she was still drawing, adding fresh details to the sketch of David, her expression tense, but again, her hand was steady as she continued to draw.

There was less tension in her body though.

She was lost in what she was doing, so the emotions and stresses of the situation were not affecting her as badly as he had feared they might.

However, he had a feeling that he was about to throw a spanner into the works.

Her work was not over yet.

There was still one more player to reveal.

"What about the man?" he asked as gently as he could. "The killer?"

"Monty," Cassia responded absently, without conscious through, her hand still moving over the page, and then suddenly, she realized what she had said and she looked up at Holmes with a startled, shocked expression on her face.

"Monty? Where did that come from?"

"I just got a brief flash of an image, something on the side of a lorry or a banner. Monty's. Like the kind of garish thing you might find on a flyer or an advertising hoarding for one of those travelling fairs or circus outfits," she explained.

"I knew it! Ha!" Holmes erupted out of the chair and did a funny little dance on the spot, briefly. "I said so, didn't I, John?"

"Yes, smart arse, you said so," Watson sighed softly, but he was amused by Holmes antics.

It reminded him of old times.

The younger man was on form today, and it was good to see.

"So that must be the name of the fair or circus."

"I suppose," Cassia responded, flipping over the page of her sketchpad, her hand poised over the paper, trembling slightly now, Holmes could not fail to notice, and she had caught her bottom lip between her teeth once more.

Now, both orbs were hovering around Cassia's head, close to each ear.

"And is that the name of our killer too?" Holmes pressed.

"Maybe."

"Good, good…"

Holmes turned back to his computer and negotiated his way back to Google, where he typed in the words _Monty's+circus+travelling fair_.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that there were four suggestions, one for a travelling reptile show, another for a funfair, one for a theme park and another for a travelling music show, however, all the suggestions had the word Monty's as a first name, and somehow, that did not feel right to him

"Cass, is that the surname or first name?" He asked, needing clarification.

"I don't know. I can only show you what they are showing me."

She carefully turned the sketchpad around showed Holmes the drawing.

she had drawn the word MONTY'S in bold yellow letters against a bright red background, in bubble style writing and in the style of an unfurling scroll.

It wasn't much help, unfortunately, and the expression on his face must have betrayed what he was thinking.

Cassia's face fell.

"I'm sorry Cass, but I have to ask…"

"I know. You want me to draw him," she spoke breathily now.

"Yes," he confirmed softly. "Do you think you can do it?"

"That would depend on the children, Sherlock, and how much they remember. I need to be careful not to upset them," she reminded.

"Ask the boy," Holmes told her. "He's angry. He wants to help …"

"He wants revenge."

"That too," Holmes agreed and realized that they could exploit that. "So use that, Cass. Ask him to describe this 'Monty' chap. Tell him it's going to help the police to catch the man."

"I'll try…"

Cassia grew silent once more, closing her eyes and drawing in several deep and refreshing breaths, impatiently dashing away an errant tear from her chin with her index finger because suddenly it was irritating her.

She knew that Holmes was right.

Angela was frightened, sitting on the elderly French woman's lap, her face buried in the woman's bosom, sobbing brokenly as the old woman gently shook her head in response to Cassia's request for her help.

The boy, David, on the other hand was rigid with anger and defiance, tiny fists clenched into tight balls at his side, a challenge burning in his chocolate brown eyes.

Holmes reasoning was sound.

David was older, better able to express himself, and he could probably remember more, as his passing was more recent than Angela's.

_Alright then. I'm up for the challenge, young Davey. Show me Monty…_

Almost immediately, vibrant, colour images began to flash through Cassia's mind and barely able to keep up, she grabbed a fresh pencil and began to draw once more.

Holmes was out of his seat quickly and came to kneel beside her, leaning against the arm of the couch as he watched her work.

A face soon emerged.

The face of a young man.

A teenager of perhaps no more than eighteen or nineteen years, with a mop of curly dark hair, open, innocent features, clear wide eyes, which Cass was colouring a lighter shade of sky blue, limited by the choice of colours in her pencil collection.

The young man had a slightly deviated nose, a slight kink in the bridge, possibly due to a break, but it wasn't recent, Holmes deduced, and his easy smile was beguiling, but his clean shaven chin was somewhat weak.

Cassia, holding the pencil more tightly than she had when she had been working on the other sketches, continued to add more detail.

First, a livid scar across his brow, just above his left eye, the stitch marks still clearly visible although it was an older scar than the one the boy David bore, and there were several distinctive tiny moles on his neck, looking uncannily like the star constellation Cassiopeia in the night sky, an oddly angled and slightly elongated W.

Cassia continued to draw, giving the young man a long, lean body, long legs, no waist, but big, strong shoulders and upper body and hands like meat hooks.

He was obviously no stranger to hard, physical work.

She added denim jeans, torn at the knees, as was the fashion with young men, hanging low on his hips, and a dark T-shirt, with a faded picture of a motorcycle on the front, completed the outfit.

He didn't look like a monster, Holmes observed.

He did not look particularly sinister either.

He looked exactly as Holmes had deduced he would.

He looked like a perfectly ordinary young man.

Benign.

Innocence personified.

He looked like the very last person that anyone would suspect of such atrocities as torturing and murdering young children.

It gave Holmes no satisfaction that his prediction to Watson had been correct.

Holmes also realized that this insipid looking young man did not look like the owner of a travelling fair or circus.

"This is him? This is Monty?"

"Yes," Cassia replied in a tight voice.

"Then the owner of the fair must be a relative. This fellow is too young. A position like that would require a real bruiser, someone with real steel and a measure of power and respect to keep the other men in the group under control."

The young man in the sketch looked like someone a burly fairman would swat away and trample all over.

Holmes speculated out loud, then he remembered the tone of Cassia's voice, and as he raised his eyes to look at her, he could see the terror in her eyes once more.

"Are you alright?" he asked with real concern in his voice now.

"I'm ok," she told him in weary tones now. "I'm getting tired and the children are fretting now," she explained, and he understood that she was also beginning to feel her psychic protection weakening.

It was time to bring this to an end.

"Is there anything else that might help us, Cass? Tell David it's important. Please."

Cassia emitted a soft sigh and picked up her pencil once more, placing the tip against the paper, she added one more detail.

Just above the young man's wrist, between the cuff of his T-Shirt and the tiny hairs on his wrist, she drew a small skull and crossbones on the outside of his wrist.

A tattoo, Holmes realized.

A very distinctive tattoo.

Home made, not something paid for in a professional tattoo parlour, he quickly deduced from the crudity of the image, more like a prison yard tattoo as favoured by prisoners in the American penal system, symbolizing gang allegiances, or their prison nicknames, and the like.

It was perfect.

Just the kind of detail, along with the moles creating the odd shape on his neck, that would make identifying him easier for the police.

Holmes could not have asked for more.

"Thank you, Cass. Thank the children too, especially the lad."

"David. David Salmon," she briefly flipped the page back so he could see the drawing of a beautiful salmon she had drawn beneath the picture of the belligerent, angry young boy.

"Thank you, Angela and David," Holmes addressed the empty room, ensuring that his tone of voice was sincere and filled with genuine gratitude. "Toi aussi, Grand-mere. Merci."

"Is it enough, Sherlock?" Cassia regarded him with anxious eyes now as she set her pencils aside on the seat cushion beside her and sat back wearily in her seat.

She indicated to the sketchpad, still laying open on her lap.

"May I?" Holmes asked, leaning in a little closer, indicating that he wanted a closer look at the sketches that she had drawn, lingering in particular, over the image she had made of the little boy, and then Cassia flipped the page back to the sketch of the little girl.

"She really is a little angel," he muttered softly, finally able to understand just how emotional Cass could get at the thought that this child had been violated and defiled in such a brutal fashion.

She was real to him now.

Almost alive, those sky blue eyes dancing with merriment.

He knew how hard it must have been for Cass to depict the children with their mortal wounds, but he also knew that it would help the pathologist who examined any remains found, to identify the bodies and ensure that they had the right children.

The sketches were beautifully draw, but he would have expected nothing less from Luca, and they had vibrancy and almost an animated quality that made them seem alive, making what had happened to these poor youngsters even more appalling.

She had brought then to life for him, and with any luck, the same would happen with the police and the general public when they saw them.

They were real people, and they deserved justice.

Thanks to Cassia's bravery and perseverance, they were a small step closer to achieving that goal.

"Well, Sherlock? Are they enough?"

"Yes," he told her with a genuinely warm smile now.

"Do you think the police will act now?"

"I'll make sure of it," he grinned, rising stiffly to his feet now. "Come along, John, we have things to do…"

While Holmes and Watson made preparations to leave for their appointment with Holmes' solicitor, Cassia went back over each sketch, adding more colour and detail, unable to stop brooding over the image of the innocuous looking young man who was responsible for wreaking so much havoc in her life.

The monster now had a face.

And a name.

And, Cassia suddenly realized with a heavy heart, that Sherlock Holmes part in this adventure had come to an end.


	40. Chapter 40

_**Chapter Thirty Nine.**_

Sherlock Holmes was infused with energy, now that he finally had a real purpose.

He needed to get those exquisite sketches to Scotland Yard and into the hands of Greg LeStrade.

The sooner the better.

He also needed to fulfil his promise to Watson and Cassia, and get to the hospital.

The time was right.

He was fast running out of stamina, and tolerance for the pain in his head.

However, instead of being eager to get going, he now found himself looking at Cassia Ingram, somewhat loathed to leave her suddenly, because she looked wan and weary, her shoulders slumped, as if all the life had drained out of her.

She looked exhausted.

However, he could not mistake the twinkle in her eyes and the look of sheer relief on her face.

She had found peace at last.

It was finally over for her.

She had confronted her tormentor, come face to face with him, and now, she knew her enemy's name

Her work was done.

As was his, or so it seemed.

He wasn't destined to hunt down the killer himself, it appeared. He was merely to be the one to present the evidence to the police and then spur then into action.

Then it would be time for him to confront his future.

"I'll go and stop a cab," Watson offered as he noticed Holmes watching Cassia.

Another less than subtle attempt at tact, Holmes realized, allowing he and Cassia a moment alone to say their farewells.

Although, Holmes could tell from the half grin on his lips that Watson would dearly have loved to be a fly on the wall at that moment!

"Bye, Cass! I'll keep in touch…" John called out as he bounded down the stairs, suddenly invigorated himself now that things were really starting to happen.

"You look done in," Holmes observed in gentle tones, addressing Cassia directly now. "Stay as long as you like," he invited. "Get some proper rest. You'll sleep easier now, no doubt."

"No doubt," she smiled in reply.

"Just let Mrs Hudson know when you leave, she'll see to everything …"

Holmes found himself wanting to go to her, to wrap his arms around her comfortingly one last time, realizing that it could be the last chance he might ever have to hold a woman, any woman, in an affectionate embrace, but he did not.

"Sherlock…" Cassia faltered, and he wondered if she had been able to read his mind.

However, the moment was gone.

He was Sherlock Holmes.

the opportunity lost, because of his inability to reach out to another human being.

It wasn't his fault.

It was simply the way that he was.

He didn't do love and romance.

He barely knew how to maintain a friendship with his male colleagues, let alone conduct a courtship with a woman.

No.

He was alone, and he preferred it that way.

Alone he was protected.

And, so Cassia would be, too.

It was for the best.

"It has been most," he paused, briefly, searching for the right word. "Illuminating," he added at last with a wry half smile.

"You'll be alright," she assured confidently.

"I know. You have it on good authority ..."

"Don't forget this…"

She rose somewhat stiffly from the couch and held out the sketches, which she had carefully torn from the pad, for him to take, a beautiful, warm, reassuring smile on her face, and his fingers gently brushed hers, briefly, as he took the sheaves of paper from her.

"Keep in touch," Holmes voice came out as a sort of thick croak, lodged somewhere in the back of his throat, and he suddenly had to cough to clear his throat.

"Of course. I made you a promise and I owe you an explanation …"

"Sherlock!" Watson's voice suddenly echoed from the bottom of the stairs, "Cab's waiting!"

"I'd better …."

Holmes waved absently toward the door, although it was clear that he had something on his mind other than rushing away.

"Yes, you better had…"

"Adieu, Cass …"

"A bientôt, Sherlock," and with that, it was Cassia Ingram who took the initiative and quickly closing the gap between them, gently wrapped her arms around Holmes, drawing him in close in a warm embrace, and so that she could reach up on tip toes and plant a soft, sweet, stolen kiss on his lips.

Holmes did not respond.

He neither welcomed, nor rebuffed her attentions.

He was far too surprised, however, not by Cassia's actions, but by his own reaction to her lips against his.

He found that he actually liked it.

She broke the kiss quickly and then drew him close in one last swift, fierce hug, and then she pulled away and turned her back, not wanting to see him go, or for him to see the fresh tears rushing down her flushed cheeks.

When she did finally look back a few seconds later, Holmes was gone.


	41. Chapter 41

_**Chapter Forty.**_

_**Three months later ...**_

Sherlock Holmes sat in his favourite chair in his living room at 221B Baker Street, watching with a heavy heart as Mrs Hudson moved around the room, tidying away bits of paper and empty, used mugs and plates, and tried to ignore her pointless prattling, because her incessant voice was grating on his nerves and giving him a nigging little headache.

"I've left you a nice chicken casserole in the fridge, dear. All you've got to do is heat it up."

She was fussing, because she was going away for a few days to visit her sister, and it was the first time that Holmes would truly be alone again since the surgery.

He was way past ready for things to revert to normal and to have his home back, all to himself once more.

He had been grateful for the support of his visitors, Watson, LeStrade, even Mycroft, and of course, Mrs Hudson, but he was well on the road to recovery now, after the excellent care at the hospital, and, at Mycroft's insistence, several weeks recuperating in the country at an exclusive spa hotel and health resort, and was hankering for some peace and quiet and time to himself.

The surgery had been a complete success, although there had been a few small side effects.

A slight weakness and tremor had remained in his right hand, although physiotherapy had soon helped to restore the strength and steadiness.

The headaches had also persisted, but he had been warned to expect that.

Now, thankfully, they were lessening, both in frequency and severity, and were tolerable and controlled with simple over the counter pain relief medication.

Life was getting back to normal, and not too soon for Sherlock Holmes.

He wanted to put the whole business behind him and move on.

He especially wanted some time to himself.

At first, he had been glad to receive the countless troop of visitors who had come to visit him since he had come home, but after a couple of weeks, their need to reassure themselves that he was about to suffer a relapse at any moment had begun to wear thin.

He was getting stronger every day, regaining his stamina, and his lust for work, and he was already growing restless, yearning for a new case so that he could test his mental prowess and assure himself that he had lost none of his sharpness and mental acuity.

He could not do that with everyone looking over his shoulder, waiting to see him falter, or fall.

John Watson was still calling around, indeed, he was due to come to lunch this very day, however, his visits were less frequent, an indication that he knew that Holmes was once again well and able to cope, and he now split his time between his wife and his medical duties, and Sherlock was secretly pleased to see that his friend and colleague prospering in both endeavours.

Yes. Life was getting back to normal.

_About time too!_

_I need my solitude back!_

"I've stocked the fridge and the freezer, and there are plenty of cans for you to choose from in the cupboards. You won't starve."

"No, Mrs Hudson, I won't starve. You're only going away for the weekend," he reminded her. "I'm perfectly capable…"

"Of course you are, dear."

"Go away Mrs Hudson. You'll miss your train."

Ignoring the sarcasm in his tone, Mrs Hudson came over to where he sat and gently cupping his chin with her hand, leaned forward and gave him a brief, dry peck on the cheek.

"Good to have you back, dear."

"Good to be back, Mrs Hudson."

It was true.

"Take care of yourself, and try not to burn my bloody house down while I'm gone," she chastised, but there was a soft smile on her lips and a bright twinkle in her eye.

Sherlock was home and all was well in her little world.

Yes, indeed, it was good to be home.

Good to be almost back to his old self.

Mrs Hudson finally stopped fussing and prattling and took her leave around mid morning, and to alleviate the boredom while he waited for John to arrive for their luncheon appointment, Sherlock went through the morning newspaper with a keen eye to anything that might interest him professionally, but he was disappointed as nothing out of the ordinary caught his attention.

All he found, much to his chagrin and irritation was further over the top coverage of what the media were calling 'The Chase Murderer'.

Highly unoriginal and predictable

Most of it was rehashing the evidence to date, the rest, wild speculation, and exploitation of anyone who had ever come into contact with the villain, from teachers from his old schools to people he had lived amongst in the travelling fair, most of whom now proclaimed that they knew that 'there was something wrong with him' or that 'he was a wrong 'un'' although none of them had ever voiced their concerns to the authorities and the rest 'simply couldn't believe it, he was such a nice boy…' and announced that 'he was always so good with the kiddies…'

Adam 'Monty' Montgomery had finally been arrested a month after Holmes had taken the sketches to Scotland Yard, and not before he had killed one last time and they had finally discovered the bodies of Angela Webb and David Salmon, a few yards apart, on Cannock Chase.

Inspector LeStrade had sent him a brief text message with the news, a simple thank you in recognition of Holmes involvement in the case.

It had been a relief for Holmes to know that the man, well, boy really, was no longer at liberty, no longer able to lure innocent babes to their deaths.

Just as Holmes had predicted, Montgomery was little more than a child himself, a boy of barely 19 years with low IQ and a body like Mr Universe, baby faced and innocence personified.

He had operated his grandfather's pathetic Punch and Judy show and other amusements within the travelling fair, sharing the old man's caravan, and had helped out others with their concerns at busy times between shows, and that was how he had come into contact with his young victims.

Satisfying as it was to Holmes to know that he had had a small part in removing this maniac from the streets, it had disappointed and frustrated him that even armed with Cassia Ingram's beautiful drawings, it had still taken the police a further month to finally apprehend Montgomery.

Today, the newspapers were full of speculation about '_what made a teenage killer?_', and depressing interviews with his poor, senile old grandfather, who had had not a clue what his grandson was up to when he borrowed his car and disappeared at night. "I thought he was just off trapping rabbits and the like..." the headline proclaimed.

Holmes cast the Daily Mail to one side in frustration, ignored The Sun and The Daily Mirror and opted instead for The Times.

They were leading with an article about the children's homes that the young victims, both orpans, had been in the care of, one of them closed down now and the children relocated to foster parents or other local care homes, the other under investigation following allegations of neglect and abuse, and the outrage of both the Government and the Nation that such appalling things could still be possible in this country, in this day and age, in our 'enlightened society'.

It was all so much hot air.

Montgomery might be under lock and key, but somewhere out there, there was someone else, just as evil and devious, perhaps even more so, just waiting to begin his or her life of cruelty and murder.

It was a never ending cycle.

As it was, so shall it be…

Reading about the case made Holmes think about Cassia Ingram.

There had been little word from her since the day that he had gone to the hospital after leaving her sketches with LeStrade at Scotland Yard, although Watson had informed him that she had visited him several times while he had been in the hospital, after the surgery, but he had been too deeply sedated to remember her visits.

When news of Adam Montgomery's arrest had broken, Holmes had sent Cassia a text, just to enquired as to her health, and she had responded briefly that she was relieved that it was all over and that perhaps she might now get some peace, and that she was glad that he was making a good recovery.

When he had returned to Baker Street, Holmes had sent Cassia another text, but that had provoked no reply.

He had been mildly irritated.

She had, after all, made a promise to him, even though he no longer planned to hold her to it.

He had not thought her the sort of person who would go back on her word.

Mostly, he was disappointed, he realized, because he wanted to see her, just to reassure her, face to face, that he would not delve into her life to reveal her secret, not that he wasn't still curious, but that, upon reflection, he had realized that it no longer mattered, and would only cause her more distress.

He had no desire to hurt her, just to satisfy his own, insatiable, morbid curiosity.

However, it seemed for all intents and purposes, that he was going to be denied the opportunity to try to make amends for his behaviour, for she had disappeared back into her anonymity.

He hated loose ends.

He also hated the fact that he needed to see her, just to satisfy himself that she was well and suffering no ill effects from her homicidal night terrors, and that there were no lingering dreams or visions of Montgomery and his sadistic handiwork.

He had consoled himself with the fact that she had made him a promise, and that, perhaps, some time in the future, when she was ready, she would again seek him out.

He found his eyes being drawn to the new picture on the wall now.

Cassia's final gift to him.

He had found her sketchpad when he had got home from the spa and had not been able to resist a quick peek at the sketches Cassia had drawn of himself and Watson, however, what he had not expected to find was an exquisite depiction of his Grand-mere on the page before the torn sheets he had taken to Scotland Yard.

He had no idea when she had penned the image, but it was breath taking in its accuracy, and his heart had clenched in his chest for a moment as he looked into that wonderfully familiar, kind and loving face.

Cassia had drawn his Grand-mere exactly as he remembered her.

Full of life and laughter and wisdom, and the portrait had brought tears to his eyes, as Sherlock remembered how much he had loved his grandmother and just how much he missed her stabilizing presence in his life.

It was absolutely the most precious gift that Cassia could have given him, because it invoked such happy memories of bygone days.

He had purchased a good frame to house the sketch and placed it in a prominent position on the wall, and every time he looked at it, he found some new detail, a different nuance, and it never failed to make him smile.

It also never failed to make him think of Cassia Ingram, and that sweet, parting kiss.

After perusing the newspapers, Holmes decided to watch the television news.

He had been deprived of all his usual access to the outside world during his stay at the spa resort, limited television time, no computer, and only an ordinary landline telephone to keep in touch with Mycroft and John.

He had almost gone out of his mind with boredom, and so, since getting out of what he had come to consider his prison, he had gone totally overboard with his use of the television, computer, texting and emailing, just for the pure joy of it.

Other men had their boy toys, fast cars or aeroplanes or speedboats, his boy toys were gadgets that stimulated his brain and kept his mind in prime condition.

That was another reason why it was good to be home. No one could take his toys away from him.

Their attitude had been that he was there to rest and recover, but his argument was that it was his body that needed the rest, not his mind, and that boredom on his part would result in his shooting someone, however, as he didn't have access to a weapon, it was an empty threat, and they had known it, so, he had had to acquiesce to their stupid rules, and vegetate.

Now, sitting in his living room, he had the computer fired up ready to use, his mobile close to hand and the television soon blaring out.

He negotiated around the various news channels, SKY, BBC, ITN, even CNN were all covering fresh speculation that the 'Chase Murderer' may have claimed even more victims in his murder spree, and that if he had, they might never be found. He was refusing to co-operate with the Police, so they might never know for sure.

Yesterday the headlines had been about the fact that whilst on remand, he had been beaten to within an inch of his life by another inmate and had now been put on suicide watch in solitary confinement.

Holmes had no pity for the man.

_What goes around comes around._

Child killers always suffered at the hands of other prisoners in jail. Their peers exacting the kind of revenge that parents, not the law, sort in retribution for the loss of their loved ones' lives.

Holmes also knew that there were no more bodies to be found.

Well, he was a sure as he could be, for if there were more young victims, surely Cassia Ingram would have come forward to tell him so, because she would want them found so that they could be given a decent burial.

No, they had been fortunate and stopped Montgomery early in his murderous career, thanks in the main to Cassia Ingram and her persistence to make someone believe her.

Cassia Ingram.

Whomever she might be, had remained silent and elusive.

At noon, Holmes went to the kitchen and put the casserole that Mrs Hudson had kindly left in the fridge for he and John's lunch into the oven on a low heat, and then made himself a cup of black coffee with two spoons of sugar and filched a chocolate biscuit from the cupboard and then carried both back into the living room and went to the table and his computer so that he could check on his website and Watson's blog.

Just before 1pm, Holmes heard the street door downstairs open and close and then familiar footsteps on the stairs.

"Sherlock? It's only me," John Watson called out, somewhat unnecessarily, Holmes thought to himself, as heard Watson climb the stairs; however, as he listened to the stairs creak, Sherlock was instantly aware that his friend was not alone.

The second set of footfalls was light and soft.

A woman, not a man.

"Look who I found on the doorstep," Watson entered the living room, a broad smile on his face, and behind him, Holmes espied another familiar, and to his surprise, much welcome face.

Cassia Ingram.

To Holmes, it was almost as though his earlier thoughts of her had finally conjured her up for him.

She looked well, he noted immediately, his eyes feasting upon her lovely face and sparkling green eyes.

She had lost more weight, but not through illness, he deduced, for her complexion was healthy, delicate English roses in her cheeks, her eyes bright, the gold flecks around the irises glowing.

She looked younger too, and he realized that he might have to revise his estimate of her age, considerably. Downward.

She looked good.

So good.

Healthy and well rested.

The weight of the world obviously lifted from her shoulders.

Holmes was both relieved and pleased.

She was much as he remembered her, but gone now were the haunted, weary eyes and the anxious demeanour.

Now that the weather had turned chill and autumn was definitely in the air, she had chosen her outfit accordingly.

She had donned a dark chocolate brown corduroy skirt that fell almost to her ankles, a plain cream blouse with delicate pearlised buttons, which she had paired up with a matching chocolate coloured canvas jacket over the top, and for today's footwear she had selected a pair of soft leather tan coloured ankle boots.

Her long hair had recently been trimmed and highlighted and was captured in a plain silver barrette in the nape of her neck, and just as he remembered, she wore no make-up and no jewellery, save for the same simple inexpensive watch that had always adorned her left wrist.

"Hello, Sherlock."

She made no attempt to enter the room, but she did greet him with a warm smile, remaining just inside the doorway.

"You look well."

"Indeed, I am. So do you."

"Thank you."

"Please, do come in and make yourself comfortable."

He indicated to the comfortable armchair opposite his own seat, while Watson shrugged out of his jacket and slung it casually around the back of one of the dining chairs at the table.

Holmes deliberately avoided calling her by name, which she did not fail to notice as she finally came into the room and made her way to the seat that he had indicated.

"Can I offer you something to drink?" Holmes asked as she sat down and tidied her skirt around her legs, crossing her booted ankles neatly, as she made herself comfortable.

"Yes, thank you. Tea would be nice."

"I'll see to it," Watson offered, aware that perhaps the two of them might appreciate a moment of time alone together.

"Luncheon won't be long, if you would care to join John and me?"

Sherlock waited until Watson had disappeared into the kitchen before offering the invitation.

"It smells wonderful."

"A simple chicken casserole, courtesy of Mrs Hudson."

"However, I really can't stay. Regretfully," she gave him a genuinely regretful smile. "Another appointment. The other reason I'm in town today. I really just came because I made a promise, and I owe you an explanation."

"There really is no need. Upon reflection, and, I have had much time to do that lately, I realized that you were right. I have no right."

"No, Sherlock. I made you a promise."

"Which I now release you from."

"That's very magnanimous of you, a noble action, but if it's all the same to you, I'd still rather just get it over with."

"You paid the piper, now you have to dance for the devil," Holmes intoned sarcastically. "It really is not necessary," he reiterated in irritated tones.

"Yes it damn well is, for my peace of mind, Sherlock, so please, just shut up and let me get on with it. Forgive my cynicism, but I need to be certain that when boredom sets in, you won't entertain yourself by pursuing my so called secret."

"You have my word."

"Sorry, not good enough," she gave him a humourless smile now. "I trust you. I even believe that you mean it, now, this minute, Sherlock, but what about a year from now? Two? Ten?" she gave him a speculative look.

"No, I can't live like that, and I won't. I would always be worrying about what you were up to; I'd always be looking over my shoulder. I'm sorry if it offends your delicate sensibilities, Sherlock, but that is how it is. It's not that I don't trust you. I do. I'm about to trust you with the singularly most important facts of my life. It's human nature, I suppose. Uncertainty. So, if I tell you everything, lay your mind at rest and tell you all that there is to know, you will have no further need to concern yourself and to go digging around in things that you shouldn't, and therefore we will both rest easy in the future."

"Very well," Holmes acquiesced, although he did not appreciate the fact that she would not simply take his word. Normally, his word was his bond and everyone he dealt with accepted that.

However, he realized that he should have expected nothing less from her, and he understood her reasoning, even if it left him wondering about the possibility of their paths crossing again in the future.

_Now why should that bother him so much?_

Now that the case was settled, and once this visit was over, there would be no need for them to see each other again.

It shouldn't matter to him in the slightest, but, somehow, it did.

"You are no longer under any obligation to me, but I understand your motivation, so, whatever you choose to confide in me, here today, will remain within these four walls. You have my word."

"Thank you."

From the kitchen they could hear the sounds of John Watson making the tea, both of them aware that in his less than subtle and tactless way, he was keeping busy and allowing them time to talk, however, by mutual silent consent, they decided to wait for him to join them.

The tea made and biscuits passed around, Cassia Ingram drew in a long, steady breath and fixed her green gaze on Sherlock's expectant face.

"So," she began. "A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away," she spoke in slightly sarcastic tones, a wry half smile on her lips now. "When I was just embarking on a normal, hormonal teenage life, doing what teenage girls do, working hard at school, worrying about zits and when I would get boobs and lusting after the latest boy band or hunky Hollywood heart throb, you know the sort of thing."

Holmes, of course, did not, having never been a teenage girl, or even a normal teenage boy himself, but he made no comment, sensing that she just needed to talk and that now that she had begun, it would be unwise to interrupt her.

"I was an ordinary kid growing up in an ordinary family, or so I thought. Of course, the older I got, the more I realized that they were far from ordinary. My father was an important man. He had a title and sat in the House of Lords, advising the Prime Minister, on what I know not, but I know that he was important," She explained in neutral tones.

"I also realized that we must have had money. All the girls at my school had rich parents, so it naturally followed that mine must be rich too. I never thought of us as being rich, but I never wanted for anything and we always had nice things and a big house in the country, and a big flat in London," she continued.

"So, we had money and privilege, and I was going to one of the best schools, making influential friends, rubbing shoulders with royalty, our own and foreign princesses, being groomed to make a good marriage, but I never thought anything of it, it was just normal to me. I'd never known anything else."

She paused to take a sip of her tea, and then draw in a soft breath before continuing.

"I had an older brother and sister. My brother was in his final year at Eton and my sister was a couple of years older than me, in the 5th form at the same school. My brother was heading for Oxford after Eton, and that summer, everyone was excited or anxious because we knew that he was going away."

"My mother was also from a good family, if more modest means. She became something of a society beauty, and enjoyed playing Lady Bountiful with Daddy's money, supporting every charity known to mankind and rubbing shoulders with the brightest and the best."

Again she kept her tone neutral, her gaze steady on Holmes' face.

"The older I got, the more I realized that it was far from an idyllic life, but mostly, I was happy. Relatively happy," she clarified, although there was now a hint of sadness creeping into her voice.

"I was away at boarding school much of the time, but when I was at home during the holidays, I was aware that my parent's marriage wasn't the happiest of arrangements."

Holmes was listening carefully, silently searching his memory for some scandal from the recent past that he might be able to link with her, for it was fast becoming obvious to him that something of that nature had happened in her life, and, he deduced, that that was what had caused her to go to ground and lose herself.

However, he decided to allow her to continue without interruption.

"There were nasty atmospheres, rows, tantrums and violent outbursts, mostly about money, or other suitors, and my father's gambling. He loved to throw money away at the gambling clubs and casinos, when he wasn't running the government. While he indulged himself; my mother alleviated her boredom by taking a string of less than discreet lovers on long foreign holidays. The rows were about her flaunting them under my father's nose, and the bills she racked up on gifts for her men friends."

"My brother and sister shielded me from the worst of it, of course, and much of the time I was oblivious to what was really going on. It all came out later."

She let out a hefty sigh now and adjusted her position in her seat, crossing her ankle over the other foot and she wriggled in her seat briefly.

Holmes deduced that her discomfort stemmed more from the details that she was revealing about her former life than from the chair she was sitting in.

He could think of several scandals amongst the aristocracy and Government Ministers in the last twenty years, but thus far, he did not see how any one of them might be connected with the young woman sitting opposite him.

"My mother's family eventually disowned her, tired of the speculation and the rumours, besmirching their name, or, I should say, one member in particular. Her father was a simple man, loving and kind, but he had no money or influence, whereas, his older brother did, and he saw to it that my mother had no contact with her parents, and that meant that neither did we children. My father's parents were both dead by this time."

She paused todraw in a steadying breath now.

"That summer it all came to a head."

She paused, swallowing, giving herself time to build up the courage to continue and to organize her thoughts.

"As soon as I came home from school, I knew there was something different. The Government had changed that spring, and my father had lost his privileged post, and along with it his salary and his access to the people he relied on to help him out when he needed money," she explained.

"He was devastated. He started drinking heavily and taking out his frustrations on my mother and my siblings. My brother was desperately unhappy. His future at Oxford was in jeopardy, and he was feeling the pressure, as the heir apparent, pressure to do well at school and to make the right kind of friends and to find the right kind of bride."

"As my father's only son, he was under pressure to present a certain image to the world, an image of success, money, power and influence, but he was struggling at school, his grades were dropping and his attendance was poor. My father found out at the end of the term that he had been skipping classes."

"Poor Charlie, we didn't know it, but he was failing. He was weak, mentally and emotionally. He turned to drugs and alcohol for comfort, and unfortunately, he over indulged. He died from a massive overdose of heroin when he realized that he was going to fail most of his exams. That was when it all hit the fan. I was 13 years old. the summer of '97, when _'things could only get better..." _she sarcastically paraphrased the song that had been popular at the time of the change of government.

Sherlock Holmes nodded solemnly, beginning to realize now that he recognized some of the facts that she was laying out for him.

It was coming back to him, slowly, and as it did, he began to realize the enormity of it.

"My father was Sir John Glazzard, the 11th Earl of Widham."

"Ah ..."

_Yes._

_Indeed._

As soon as he heard the name, Holmes recalled the case clearly now, although he had only been a teenager himself at the time.

Naturally, it had been all over the newspapers and television news for months after.

A proper, very British scandal.

The errant Earl had gunned down his whole surviving family. His beautiful, unfaithful wife, and both daughters, and then, he had burned the Ancestral home down before finally shooting himself in the head, presumably tipped over the edge by the loss of his government position and the death of his only son to drugs, coming so close together.

"I see you remember the case."

There was sorrow, and resignation in her voice now.

She had never for one minute doubted that her family's scandal might have passed beneath his radar.

"Yes," Holmes frowned. "But my recollection of the facts as they were reported is that the whole family died."

"Indeed we did."

"But..."

"Well, obviously,_ I_ survived. Unofficially, of course."

She smiled patiently then.

"When the police arrived, I was still alive, barely, so they sent me off to hospital, and my mother's family were advised of the situation. My mother's father had no means to pay for my care, which was going to be a long, expensive process. I had been shot in the chest, the bullet lodging in my aorta, and there were to be many dangerous and complicated, not to mention exspensive surgical procedures to follow over the nexst few years."

She paused suddenly, as though the memory of it still caused her pain and anguish.

"My grandfather was just a lowly vicar with a small parish in the country, so, he had no option but to turn to his older brother, the Archbishop of York, for help. Grudgingly, he agreed to pay the medical bills, but only on two conditions, that my name be legally changed and the girl I had been up to that point be declared legally dead, and that neither I nor my grandfather ever had anything to do with him again. I was to be disowned too."

Again she paused, allowing Sherlock and John to digest what she had just told them.

"Naturally my grandfather agreed. I don't know how they swung it, legally, but, Lady Felicity Marie Glazzard died, and plain Jane Smith was born."

"Jane Smith," Holmes savoured the name, and smiled softly.

He realized that she had told him the truth when she had said that she was exactly what she appeared, and he had been mistaken when he had told her that everything about her appearance was a lie.

She did indeed look more like a Jane Smith than a Lady anything.

However, now that he knew the facts, the contradiction seemed natural. After all, for the first thirteen years of her life, she had been raised as an aristocratic Lady, and no matter how she might try to conceal it, or deny it, her true nature would always be there, just below the surface, at odds with the facade she now presented to the world.

"Pleased to meet you, at last."

Jane smiled softly, before continuing, realizing that Holmes finally understood.

"So, there I was, with no control over my life, everyone I ever cared for gone, along with my inheritance and my history. They were dark times for a while there."

She grew wistful for a moment, and then she drew in another breath and carried on.

"Actually, my Uncle did me a favour. I was able to live a pretty normal life, once I was over my injuries, and I loved living in the country with my grandfather. We had a chance to really get to know each other, a chance I might never have had otherwise. We had no money, but it didn't matter because we had each other."

"I went to a local school, an ordinary secondary school, made a few friends, and then from there, college. My grandfather was very proud of the way I got on with my new life."

Her smile grew stronger, briefly, and then she again grew sad.

"However, just before my fifteenth birthday, my grandfather had a series of strokes, mild ones to begin with but they grew progressively worse, and eventually he died."

She paused to draw in a breath, and Holmes noticed the change in her demeanour then, something making her back straighter and her facial expression harden.

"That was when my Uncle, the Archbishop was forced to step in and become my guardian. He was single. A strict disciplinarian and a man embroiled in his religious convictions and the politics and power struggles within the Church of England," she explained in a cold voice.

"Grudgingly, he took responsibility for my material needs, and I had no choice but to stay with him during school holidays, enduring his endless Bible bashing and scathing criticism of my parents and siblings, their pettiness and selfishness, forced to listen to his endless self pity about the position the scandal had put him in at the time."

"Unfortunately, it was around this time that my psychic ability began to manifest its self, firstly in dreams and nightmares and then in waking visions. At first I thought I was going mad. Needless to say, the Archbishop almost lost the plot. Not only was his only surviving relative the child or a whore and a murderer, she also had visions and heard voices. I truly was to him the Devil's Spawn."

She gave a bitter little laugh then, and from across the room, John Watson let out a snort of outrage.

"He was totally unsympathetic or even tolerant, and he tried to have me committed to a mental hospital, but fortunately, the doctors didn't think that I was actually mad. They treated me for grief and depression for a while and I learned to keep my mouth shut about the dreams and the visions, and finally they sent me back to the poisonous old Archbishop to endure more of his rage and hypocrisy."

She emitted a ragged sigh now.

"Eventually I turned eighteen and he kicked me out, cut me off without a penny, and sent me packing. Fortunately, my grandfather had left a small inheritance for me, in a trust, so I set out to make a life for myself, as best I could."

"However, before he severed all ties with me, my ever loving Uncle, made me sign a legal document, a contract, to the effect that I would not bring about any more shame or scandal upon his name, that I would not flaunt my wicked curse, after all, he was a man of God, with an important position in the church, and he had ambitions to go higher up."

"The document forbade me to publically associate myself with him, for any reason, good or bad, and if I ever got myself into any trouble in the future, I could not rely on him to bail me out."

"If I ever went to the press to try to sell my story, he would deny me, and prove me an imposter, and, if I ever used my gift to make money, he would do everything he could to denounce me, or, as my only blood relative, have me declared mentally incompetent."

She paused, glancing up briefly at Holmes before continuing.

"In other words, if he ever heard my name in public, he would see to it that I remained penniless and discredited for the rest of my life. Naturally, I needed money. I needed to feed and clothe myself. I was a pretty good artist, but it had only been a hobby until that point in my life. I had only used it for my own enjoyment and that of my grandfather. It never occurred to me to make a living from selling my work, but I did believe that I might be able to get a teaching degree and use my art to help disabled children," she explained, and Holmes noticed immediately that she was growing more relaxed once more.

"So, I enrolled in college and did an art course, then I got a student loan and put myself through University, here in London, doing a combined art and teaching degree. It was there that I met Maddie. She comes from a good family too, and we were very much alike. She is titled and privileged, and rolling in money, and I had grown up around those kinds of people, so we related well to each other. She is also the most down to earth person I know, and I have come to love her like a sister."

Now there was a genuinely warm smile on her lips.

"I was happy. Maddie and I shared a flat, and eventually I began to trust her enough to tell her my story. She has kept my secret all these years. She has helped me out with a place to stay and money when I have needed it, and we have laughed together and cried together over the years. When I finally graduated and got a teaching job at a small specialist private school for disabled children, I gave Maddie one of my paintings, as a gift, a thank you for everything that she had done for me over the years, and, as luck would have it, one of her friends saw it and raved about it."

"And Luca was born."

"Yes. At first I was appalled. I knew there might be a fuss, if people liked my work and I became successful, and that would put me in breach of my contract with my Uncle. I fought Maddie for a very long time, but then I realized that it was a pity not to share my work. It's not about money, Sherlock. It never has been for me. The whole point of any kind of art for me is to give pleasure, and my work wasn't doing that covered in sheets in my studio."

Holmes nodded in understand, art, like music, was meant to be shared and enjoyed.

"It was Maddie who came up with the idea of a pseudonym, like writers use pen names. A lawyer friend of hers also suggested using an intermediary as my advocate, a buffer between me and the rest of the art world, so I could maintain my anonymity."

"It worked very well."

"Yes, it did."

"And now that Luca is out there, in the public domain, you fear that your new identity is at risk. That is why you don't want me meddling."

Holmes spoke matter of factly.

"Exactly. I like my life just as it is, Sherlock. I no longer feel like I am hiding, but I also don't want to live my life worrying that someone might slip up and say something that leads the press straight to my door. The fewer people who know the truth, the better."

"And all this is because you fear what your Uncle might do?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

She grew solemn now.

"You can imagine what would happen should the old man get wind of what has happened, if he ever found out, and decided to tell the world about his accursed great niece's affliction and her family's wicked secrets. The press would have a field day and my benefactors and sponsors would all disappear into the woodwork, fearing that they too might be tarnished by my shame."

"Then they wouldn't be worth having in your life, Jane," John Watson intoned.

"I have certain responsibilities to them, John, and I have been grateful for their support. It wouldn't be a very nice way to repay their trust and their kindness."

She smiled at him.

"I have a simple life, a good life. I am content. I don't want to spoil the status quo. I couldn't cope with it. I just want to be left alone. Do you understand, Sherlock?"

"I understand your fears, Jane, but in truth, I doubt that your Uncle has anywhere near the power that you credit him with. I doubt very much that he would be able to enforce the contract between you," he pointed out.

"For a start, he would have some serious explaining to do about his actions back then, himself. Besides, you must surely be making a good income from the sales of your artworks, I've seen the reviews, and some of the figures quoted, so he would no longer have any power to influence your financial situation."

"But he could ruin my reputation. You of all people know how the press can turn on someone. One minute you're flavour of the month, the next you're up there with Osama Bin Laden, public enemy number one."

Holmes made no comment, but he knew that she was right.

He had had a taste of how the press worked himself and had not come out of it looking very good.

"He will bring me down, if he fears that his reputation is being threatened, and in his twisted mind, my very existence, who and what I am, what I am able to do, the very fact that I draw breath, is a threat to him. I know the kind of man he is, how ruthless he can be in pursuit of his own ambitions, and I have no doubts that he will do whatever has to be done to protect him self, and throw me to the wolves, with no regrets."

She was very persuasive in her argument, a further indication to Holmes of just how real she felt the threat to her from this vindictive old man was.

"I never asked that he love me, or even care for me, but he is all that I have left in the world, the only thing that I have that ties me to my family and their history. I respect his position, even if he is a bigoted hypocrite. It's no longer about faith for him. It's about respectability, reputation, appearances, power and position. They are the things that he lives for now. His love, if he ever had any, has turned to bitterness, disgust and hatred. He has reached a certain position within the Church, and he will die before he lets anything ruin that."

"Your work would speak for its self, Jane."

"I know, but I'm not talking about my artwork. I'm talking about my teaching job, and the fact that my employers would feel that I have lied to them all these years. I love teaching, Sherlock, and I won't do anything to jeopardize that. I love my art, but I would give it up in a heartbeat if I thought that there was any chance that someone might discover my true identity and rake up the past. I am a Pariah, Sherlock, the fruit of the poison tree. There would be no peace, no security. The media would hunt me down, hound me, and I simply cannot bear that thought, or what it would do to the fragile, special children I am charged with taking care of. I want to let sleeping dogs lie, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

"I believe so, although I feel that your fears are unfounded. Your parent's shame is not on you, Jane. You are not to blame."

"I know that, but the old man doesn't think like that. He has tarred me with the same brush as my father and mother. Their blood is in my veins, and one day, blood will out, as far as he is concerned. He has influential friends too. The kind of friends who can make someone legally dead at the drop of a hat, the kind of friends who could make my life, and that of anyone close to me very miserable. I just can't take the chance."

"Just who the hell is this man, anyway?" Watson demanded, outraged that anyone could hold so much power over another.

"The Most Reverend Andrew Considine, The Archbishop of Canterbury."

"Bloody hell..." Watson exclaimed.

"And a man who should know better. But I see what you mean about position and rank and power," Holmes sighed deflatedly.

"Fortunately, although I can't choose my family, I can choose my friends. I would like to be able to think of the two of you as my friends, amongst those I trust most in my life."

"Thank you," Holmes spoke sincerely, on behalf of both of them. "John and I would count that an honour."

"And you'll keep my secret?"

"Of course we will, Jane." Watson confirmed.

"You need have no doubts or fears on that account."

"Thanks."

"As for the money, you're right, Sherlock. It's akin to a King's ransom. More money than I could spend in several lifetimes, so I have been able to use much of the money to fund some of the projects at the school where I work, through Maddie, and her friends of course. I can't afford for the staff there to even suspect that the money comes from me, and I donate to other charities too. That's why I'm in town today, to sign several cheques for my favourite charities."

She smiled softly then.

"So, you see, Sherlock, it's not a skeleton in my closet or dirty laundry that makes me lie about my identity. I just can't run the risk of publicity. It would be hard to explain why I've been 'dead' all these years. I assume you have some experience with that yourself."

"Indeed."

"I have a pathological need to keep out of the spotlight and to keep under my Uncle's radar. Besides, I rather like being Jane Smith. Plain Jane, a nothing little nobody from nowhere, and that's just the way I want it to stay."

"You're none of those things," Watson interjected, but he underestood what she was trying to say.

"Your Uncle, he has no idea?" Holmes enquired, casually.

"None. Why should he? We haven't spoken for a dozen years, and that suits both of us. As long as I stay invisible, I'm safe."

"And he calls himself a man of God," John Watson scoffed.

"He can't live forever, Jane," Holmes pointed out, recalling that the present encumbent of the title of Archbishop of Canterbury was a man in his late eighties. "One day you will be free to step out from his shadow."

"In many respects, Sherlock, I already have, but I know what you mean. I will be able to face the world and perhaps change how the world thinks and feels about my family and their name."

"They couldn't have been all bad, Jane," Watson interjected.

"Indeed. They created you," Holmes added, with a gentle smile.

"Thanks. Anyway, I had better make a move. I'm expected for lunch with Maddie and my lawyer."

"And I'd better check on that casserole …"

Watson excused himself rising from his chair and disappearing into the kitchen as Holmes and Jane rose and looked at each other with gentle eyes.

"Will I see you again?" Holmes asked unexpectedly. "Or are you never to darken my doorstep again?"

"Never is a long time, Sherlock," Jane smiled sweetly up at him, reaching out to capture one of his hands in her own, and again, Holmes experienced that jolt, like a bolt of lightening slamming through his whole body.

"And I have it on good authority that whilst you night think you are the smartest thing since sliced bread, you can't solve every thing on your own. If our paths are meant to cross in the future, Sherlock who are we to disagree with those older and wiser than ourselves?"

She rose on tiptoes and quickly closing the gap between them, planted soft, sweet lips against Holmes' in a brief, tender, bittersweet kiss, and then she drew away again just as quickly, a big grin on her face.

"Take care of yourself, wise guy. Remember, you need the transport every bit as much as you need that noggin of yours. Try not to get into too much trouble, and you might consider trying to be a little bit nicer when dealing with the general public. A good reputation for your work is one thing but a reputation for being a good man, a kind and thoughtful man would be a better thing."

And with that she turned away from him, and Holmes made no effort to stop her as she made her way out of his living room and down the stairs, calling a final, cheery goodbye to both Watson and Holmes as she exited the street door of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes life, at least for the time being.

He found himself fervently hoping, with a soppy grin on his lips.


End file.
